


Six Days

by dottyoz



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-31
Updated: 2016-01-08
Packaged: 2018-02-11 04:45:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 16
Words: 28,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2054157
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dottyoz/pseuds/dottyoz
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It’s been six days since Dean went missing and two hours since Sam found him, huddled in a damp corner, shaking in fear.  Sam doesn’t know what his brother is so scared of. He can’t see anything in this cellar but Dean is still refusing to move away from the wall.  Sam can’t begin to imagine the horrors Dean must have gone through down here and Dean can’t manage more than two words at the moment.</p><p>H/C in equal doses.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Day Six i

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own the Winchesters, their friends or their property. If you recognise something, it's probably not mine.

It’s been six days since Dean went missing and two hours since Sam found him, huddled in a damp corner, shaking in fear. Sam doesn’t know what his brother is so scared of. He can’t see anything in this cellar but Dean is still refusing to move away from the wall. Sam can’t begin to imagine the horrors Dean must have gone through down here and Dean can’t manage more than two words at the moment.

The damp is starting to seep through Sam’s clothing now and he can’t repress the shudder that courses through him. He feels Dean flinch away from him at the sudden motion and tentatively reaches a hand out towards his brother. Dean eyes the hand worriedly, not quite ready to be touched but desperately needing Sam there, to ground him, to reassure him, to let him know he’s not alone any more.

Sam lets his hand drop gently on Dean’s shoulder, ignoring the tension in his muscles and the feel of bones too near the surface. He’s worried that Dean feels so fragile and wishes the light was better down here so he could get a good look at his brother. He tried to light a flashlight when he first found Dean but the distress evident on his face that it caused, made him switch it off almost immediately again. It had cast enough light for Sam to see dark shadows where there should be none but he doesn’t know the cause of them. They could be blood, or bruises, or just plain dirt.

He’s relieved to feel Dean relax into his touch slightly and decides to try to get through to him again.

“Dean.” He’s gentle, not wanting to startle or scare his brother. “I need to see where you’re hurt. I’m going to put the flashlight on, okay?”

Dean’s reaction takes Sam by surprise. He reels away from Sam’s touch, pressing himself into the corner even further than Sam thought possible. A frightened whimper that breaks Sam’s heart escapes from his lips. Sam raises his hands placatingly.

“It’s okay. It’s okay.” He reassures Dean. “I’ll leave the light off, okay?” He can just about make out the nod Dean gives through the gloom. He really does need to check for injuries though. He’s left it long enough, too long really.

He slides forward slowly, not wanting to worry Dean any more than necessary, but in his head, he reluctantly acknowledges that he’s not going to be able to do this without causing some upset.

“I’m just going to check your head, Dean. It’s just me, okay. You’re safe.” Sam talks Dean through what he’s about to do as he ghosts a hand through Dean’s hair. He can sense how much Dean wants to move, to pull away, to hide. He knows how hard this is as he applies a little more pressure to his fingertips, pushing down through Dean’s short hair till he can feel his brother’s scalp beneath his hands.

Dean’s breathing hitches as Sam’s gentle ministrations find a lump at the base of his skull. Sam can feel dried blood below the bump and feels a flash of rage in his gut. He softly works his fingers down the back of Dean’s neck, coming to rest with one hand on either shoulder.

“How long has that been there?” he asks, not really expecting an reply. He’s surprised when Dean suddenly drops his head down, coming to rest on Sam’s forearm.

“Sam?” His voice is barely there, just a husky whisper, nothing more. Sam feels a moisture on his arm and is shocked to realise Dean is crying.

“Yeah. It’s me, dude,” he answers and lifts his free hand to rest on the side of Dean’s face. Dean nods weakly, unable to do much more.

“Knew you’d come,” he manages to whisper before sagging heavily into Sam, lost to an unconscious oblivion.

Sam feels a guilty relief as he gently lies Dean down, groping behind him for his abandoned flashlight. The light he shines on Dean’s body reveals nearly a week’s worth abuse and Sam has to fight hard to suppress a gag reflex. Dean is filthy from head to toe, a mixture of blood, sweat, dirt and other bodily fluids Sam is sure Dean would rather not have mentioned. His clothes are torn and Sam doesn’t think he’ll be able to save this particular shirt. He knows it’s a favourite of Dean’s – he wears it enough – but he doubts Dean will want any reminder of his ordeal here.

Working quickly before Dean stirs again Sam runs his hands gently but firmly over his brother’s body. He can’t feel any broken bones although both Dean’s wrists are swollen and weeping sluggishly from what Sam assumes are rope burns. Sam has nothing here to clean Dean’s injuries and the flashlight doesn’t afford enough light for anything more than a cursory examination. He knows they need to get out of here. Not because he’s worried they’ll be interrupted – they won’t, he took care of that – but because Dean needs more than he can give him here.

Grateful that Dean is still unconscious Sam debates the best way to get him out of here. The Impala is round the back of the house and Sam is sure there’s a back door. Only thing is, that route will take them past the carnage Sam wrought on his way in. While this doesn’t bother him, he doesn’t want Dean to wake to that sight. He decides to go for the front door. He can leave Dean on the porch while he gets the car.

Decision made, he carefully hooks his hands under Dean’s arms and hoists him over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s lift. Grunting as he takes the strain of his brother’s weight, he steadies Dean’s legs, wrapping an arm round them to prevent him swinging into a wall and hurting himself further. He can feel the reassuring rise and fall of Dean’s chest so he knows his brother is hanging in there. The warmth radiating through his jeans and shirt though are disturbing. Realistically, Sam knows there’s a high probability of fever, if not more serious complications and the best place for Dean right now is a hospital.

He makes it up the stairs to the ground floor. The sun is just starting to rise above the horizon but the winter air is still bitterly cold. Out on the veranda he puts Dean down as carefully as if he were a piece of antique glass. He looks around for something to cover his brother with, albeit temporarily. He knows he’ll be back with the car in less than five minutes but with a fever lurking, Sam doesn’t want to take any risks with Dean’s health. He can’t see anything suitable though. The only thing in view is an old blanket but the smell of it is enough to turn his stomach. There’s no way he’s putting that thing anywhere near Dean. 

Sam takes a last look at Dean, reluctant to tear himself away. He knows it’s silly. He’s only going round back to get the car. There’s no one here and Dean isn’t going anywhere. But it’s taken him six days to find Dean and to be away from him now – it feels like he’ s tempting fate. He can’t help resting his hand on Dean’s brow, just to check. Dean is warm, too warm for Sam’s liking and it spurs him on.

He’s back with the car in the predicted three minutes. As he bounds up the steps to the porch, Dean stirs. Sam stops abruptly when he hears his brother’s moans. By the time he reaches his side, Dean is trying to open his eyes. But he’s been in darkness for six days and the light is hurting his retinas. Tears leak, unbidden, from beneath his lids and Sam isn’t convinced he’s not still crying. He doesn’t know what Dean is conscious of, so he announces his presence quietly.

“Dean? Let’s get you to the car, man. Can you walk?”

Dean jumps, startled by the voice but, unlike earlier, he relaxes as soon as he recognises the sound of Sam’s tone. He reaches out a hand, eyes shut tight still, and waves it around until Sam catches it in his. 

“Sammy?” His own voice hasn’t improved much and Sam has to lean forward to hear what’s being said. “Knew you’d come. Knew you’d come for me,” he repeats and Sam realises Dean isn’t as lucid as he’d thought.

“I’ll always come for you, Dean. It’s what we do.” He looks to the car and wonders if Dean is going to make it that short distance. Dean’s grip on his hand is tightening to the point of being painful and his breathing has speeded up. Sam doesn’t know what’s causing it but he’s watching his brother on the verge of a panic attack. He doesn’t have the facilities to deal with that here. He needs to get them both into the car and to a safe place, one that Dean knows and recognises.

“Dean,” he catches his other hand and holds both of Dean’s hands firmly in place. “I’m going to get you to the car now. It’s time to go.” He pauses and looks around. The area is deserted and that’s the way he wants it to stay. “C’mon, man. I need you to help me here.”

It’s hard work but, together, they make it to the car in a respectable time. Dean passes out again as soon as Sam gets him comfortable in the back seat, lulled by the familiarity of the leather and the scent of engine oil and gasoline.

Sam settles into the driver’s seat and pulls out his phone. Watching Dean in the mirror, he dials the number from memory.

“Bobby? I got him. We’re on our way.”


	2. Day One

Day One

Sam waits patiently outside the library for Dean to come pick him up. He’s been in there just under an hour and he’s found all he can on Felicity Bell. She’s been causing quite some trouble since her death and Sam thinks he’s found the reason. All he needs now is for Dean to arrive. 

After another half hour he starts to get restless. It’s not like his brother to be this late without calling. He pulls out his own phone and scrolls down, hitting the call button when he gets to the right place. He listens to the ringing down the line and knows before it happens that he’s just going to get Dean’s voicemail. He leaves a terse message, he’s getting cold after all, and Dean knows how precious time is.

An hour later and Sam has paced up and down the same 20 yards of the sidewalk, left another three messages and is now beginning to seriously worry. He knows Dean’s easily distracted by a pretty face and short skirt but he’s never left Sam hanging this long without at least a text message or an obscene rundown of his afternoon so far. The motel is too far to walk but Sam remembers it being on a bus route. He can’t remember the last time he had to resort to public transport but his need to be doing something is overwhelming.

The bus isn’t as bad as he was expecting. He manages to get a seat to himself, by the window, and spends the whole 25 minute journey scouring the street for his errant brother. By the time he reaches his destination his heart is heavy and dread sits in the pit of his stomach like a lead balloon. The Impala is where he last saw it, in the parking lot, engine cold to the touch and the door to their room is swinging in the wind.

Sam has his gun out without realising he’s doing it. Nudging the door open he casts his eyes over the room before taking the step he’s dreading. He wants to find his brother, but at the same time he doesn’t want him to be here in this room. The furniture is strewn across the room and once Sam is satisfied there’s nothing in there, he steps over the threshold, heart in mouth, desperately hoping this is some sick joke of Dean’s but knowing his brother would never be this cruel.

Dean’s duffel is on the bed where he threw it carelessly this morning after his shower, clothes spilling out of it. The paper he was reading is still on the table but that’s where normalcy ends. The chairs are lying on their sides or on their backs, the stock motel artwork is hanging on to the wall by a thread, Dean’s gun is on the floor at the foot of the bathroom door and just below the window is blood. 

Dean’s blood.

Sam doesn’t know how he knows, he just does. And there’s too much there for his liking.

***** 

Any minute now, Dean thinks with a smile hovering on the edge of his lips, Sam is going to get really pissed that he’s not there. He didn’t mean to get held up at the diner but the waitress –Karen, Carol, Kirsty, something like that – was just too enticing. It would have been rude to walk away from her comely charms.

He jangles the keys to the room in his left hand, reflecting that Sammy has a lot to learn when it comes to priorities. An afternoon in a stuffy library, or an afternoon spent in the pursuit of fun. He’s lost in thought when it happens. Just as he slips the key into the lock, he hears a heavy footstep behind him. It’s a motel though, so he doesn’t think much of it as he opens the door. 

He should have paid more attention.

A hand between his shoulder blades, one sharp thrust and he’s propelled over the threshold, losing any companionship with balance as he goes. But Dad trained him well and he rolls with the fall, pulling his gun from the small of his back and pointing it in front of him before his eyes have the chance to focus on his enemy.

Unfortunately, his assailant is way ahead of him. A foot connects painfully with his wrist and the gun goes flying, it’s passage halted by the bathroom door. Resisting the impulse to pull his hand in to his body, biting down a cry of pain as white hot daggers shoot up his arm, Dean rolls over and scrambles towards the weapon. He’s nearly there when a large hand wraps itself around his ankle and tugs, just once, and he crashes to the floor.

Absurdly, he wonders when the carpet was last deep cleaned, as he’s dragged back towards the door. He kicks out with his free leg but it’s to no avail. Belatedly he realises there’s more than one person in the room with him and he’s willing to bet there’s an unnatural strength in that hand gripping on to him. Another hand grabs his wildly flailing leg and twists it painfully. Dean sees spots at the edge of his vision and relaxes his struggles.

He has no idea what’s going on and he doesn’t intend to find out. He lets his body go limp, pretends to lose consciousness and has to grit his teeth against the agony in his left knee as the twist becomes more pronounced. For a minute it looks like his ruse has worked and both his legs are released, flopping to the floor like a rubber chicken.

He knows this may be his last chance to get away. He rolls on to his back as quickly as he can, drawing his knees up to his chest and thrusting his feet forwards until he makes contact with a broad chest and hears a satisfying ‘oof’ as the man before him stumbles back a couple of feet. Not waiting for the next move, Dean gains his feet and, dismissing the door as an exit, makes his way falteringly to the window. 

He’s nearly there when he hears the distinctive sound of a shotgun being cocked. He thinks his time is up and thoughts of Sam fill his head, things he meant to tell him but never got the chance, regret that Sam will be the one to find him, bloody and dismembered in this crappy little motel room in the middle of nowhere. It’s not the most dignified exit for a hunter but in the grand scheme of things, he doesn’t think it matters.

He hears the explosion of gunshot, waits for the pellets to hit him, waits for the ringing in his ears to stop and then realises there was never any intention to hit him. They want to scare him. But it takes more than that to scare Dean Winchester and he can’t help but laugh silently to himself.

Unfortunately, while he was distracted with his supposed dying thoughts, his assailants have gained ground on him and the next thing he knows is the pain of the shotgun barrel connecting with the small of his back, bringing him to his knees, followed by a booted foot connecting with the side of his head, splitting open a gash along his hair line. Head wounds bleed like a bitch and that’s going to leave a stain he thinks absently, as his fight with consciousness ends in defeat.

***** 

Sam sinks down on Dean’s bed, dropping his head into his hands. He knows now why his brother didn’t make it to the library. Suddenly Felicity Bell pales into insignificance. There was a fight here and from his research, that’s not her style. Dean is gone, taken by force, stolen away from him and he needs to get him back. All other thoughts flee his mind. Sam Winchester is determined to find his brother, to wreak vengeance upon his captors, to kill anyone and anything that gets in his way.

He breathes deeply, an exercise Jess taught him to relax before exams. Although there’s no comparison between the two situations, he finds it calms him down enough to think relatively straight, for a while at least. 

He knows Dean would have put up one hell of a fight and the state of the room is evidence of that. He also knows he needs to clean this up. One nosey chambermaid and he’s done for. One suspicious neighbour and one well meaning call to the cops and he’ll never get the chance to find Dean. He considers hightailing it out of there but in the back of his mind he thinks Dean might make his own way back and if Sam is gone… well, it doesn’t bear thinking about.

He sets about straightening the room as best he can, as best as he can be bothered, mind whirring 100 mph, rifling through his internal catalogue of enemies, of the ones that got away. He’s not stupid. He knows they’ve both made mistakes, costly mistakes at times, and it’s just possible one of Dean’s just came back to bite him on the ass.

He finds nothing in the wreckage of the room to indicate where his brother might have been taken and he realises, in despair, he can’t do this alone. He picks up his phone, scrolls through the few names left in his contact list and hits the call button.

“Bobby?” he nearly cries down the line, “I lost Dean.”


	3. Day Two

Day Two

Bobby drives through the night to get to Sam. He’s heard that tone of voice from a Winchester before and it never ends well. Those boys are like his own and he’d give his life for either one of them. He hopes it won’t be necessary but Sam’s call tore into him in a way he didn’t think possible.

He gets to the motel just after dawn, spotting the Impala gleaming in the crisp winter sunlight. He thinks it ironic the weather is smiling when everything else is going to hell in a handcart. He hesitates just outside the door, hand raised to knock. Sam must have seen him coming though, as the door swings open and Sam is standing there, a half smile on his face.

“Hey, Bobby.”

Sam looks exhausted and Bobby knows he hasn’t slept at all. He’ll be no good to Dean in this state and Bobby thinks he might have to pull the fatherly concern card. If the tables were turned, if Dean were standing in front of him he could just issue an order, Dean would never disobey, but Sam? He never really understood the chain of command. And Bobby doesn’t think now is the time to start that lesson. His brother is missing and, by the looks of him, Sam is ready to kill something, anything. 

Pleasantries are dispensed with, they know each other too well to waste time on formalities. Dean’s life is at stake here and neither of them is willing to jeopardise it more than they have to. Sam’s distraught call last night told Bobby everything he needs to know and that look on the boy’s face now? That fills in any gaps.

Bobby’s tired though. He’s been in this game longer than Sam and he knows a tired hunter is a compromised hunter. He knows it’s going to kill Sam but they really need to take a timeout. The longer they stay awake, the less effective they’re going to be and the longer it’s going to take to find Dean.

And they will find Dean.

***** 

Dean thinks his eyes are open. It’s hard to tell in this gloom. He tries to wave a hand in front of his face, just to check, but he can’t. They’re tightly bound behind his back. So tightly that when he tries to wiggle his fingers all that happens is the tendons in his wrists press against the cord, which cuts into his skin. 

His head is throbbing but that’s to be expected, he muses, as he tries to work out what happened. He knows there was a fight and he knows he lost. He’s uncharacteristically accepting of that little fact. Not only was he outnumbered, he thinks he was outstrengthed. Then he wonders if that’s even a word. Sammy would know. He must remember to ask him when he gets out of this little bind he finds himself in.

There’s a nausea in the pit of his stomach he doesn’t think is entirely down to the head injury. He knows a concussion when he feels one, he’s had enough of them in his time, and this feels different somehow. Slowly he becomes aware of a dull ache in the crook of his elbow that wasn’t there before. 

Just as he begins to catalogue his injuries – the headache, the nausea, the dancing spots on the edge of his vision, the irritating buzzing in his ears – there’s a soft scraping sound somewhere down by his feet. He instinctively brings his knees up to his chest, thankful that he’s lying on his side whilst trying not to think of what else might be on the floor with him.

His movement seems to have startled whatever was making the noise into silence and he releases a breath he didn’t know he was holding. He adds bruised ribs to his mental list. Trying to relax, he pushes his feet to the floor, shoving his body along the floor. He suspects he looks ridiculous but nobody’s watching, or at least he hopes nobody’s watching.

He’s dismayed to find his head connecting with a wall after only a couple of inches. Closing his eyes he stretches his feet out as far as he can, halting when his ribs scream in protest and he can’t help the sharp intake of breath. The scrabbling sound has started up again and in the darkness he has no idea what it is. 

If Sam were here, Dean muses, he would know. He’d be able to give Dean a lecture on all the creatures, both natural and supernatural, that make dark, damp environments their home. Dean wishes with everything he has that Sam was here with him. Because then he might stand a chance of getting out of here in one piece.

He doesn’t know when he became such a pessimist. Maybe it’s the binding around his wrists, maybe it’s the disorientation the darkness brings, maybe it’s the blinding headache and the sickness. Whatever it is, Dean can feel himself teetering on despair and it’s not a place he likes. He closes his eyes and tries to transport himself to his happy place. Only problem is, he thinks after a minute or two, he doesn’t have a happy place. Hasn’t really had one since he was four years old.

The scrabbling sounds louder now, and closer. Dean curls in on himself, feeling helpless and vulnerable. He feels tugging on the hem of his jeans and instinctively kicks out. There’s a shrill squeak as his foot connects with something soft. He hears it land and then the scrabbling sounds again. More tugs at his jeans and suddenly, without warning, a sharp nip at his ankle has him jerking his leg up to his chest again. 

But the first nip is followed by a second, and then a third and then it seems that Dean is the main course for a thousand tiny teeth, pulling and gnawing through his clothing to rip the tender flesh at both ankles. The brush of course hair on his shin gives the game away. He’s sharing his space with rats. A thousand rats. A thousand, hungry rats.

Right now, his life sucks.

*****

It’s hard work, but eventually Sam concedes Bobby’s point. After half an hour of tossing and turning he finally falls asleep. It’s not a restful sleep, images of his brother – bloody, screaming, dead – fill his dreams, taunting him. He wakes full of renewed determination.

Bobby is lying on Dean’s bed and for one, irrational moment, Sam thinks his brother is back, that it’s all been a nightmare. But then Bobby grunts and the spell is broken, bringing Sam back to reality with a crash.

He knows the older hunter needs to rest, to recover from his long drive, but the urge to start looking for Dean is overwhelming. Every second spent in this crappy motel room is a second he could be using to find the missing man. He begins to move around the room, shuffling papers, closing doors none too gently, trying to coax Bobby back to wakefulness without physically waking him.

Just as Sam is about to give up and throw a glass of cold water over Bobby, he stirs, rolling over onto his back and stretching his arms above his head. He peers blearily through small eyes at Sam. Sam holds the water out to Bobby with an apologetic smile on his face. He hopes Bobby doesn’t realise what he was about to do.

By the time they’ve got coffee in their hands, Sam is ready to explode with impatience. He can’t bear this inactivity. He knows Dean would have scoured the whole town, hell the whole state, by now if he were the one missing. Bobby’s all for taking it slow, making sure of their facts before running off half cocked into a potentially deadly situation.

Sam’s never been one to sit by meekly if he disagrees with something. The harsh words exchanged between the two hide their mutual concern for the older brother. Eventually Bobby suggests tracing Sam and Dean’s movements from the day before. Sam can’t see the point but, as Bobby, points out, he didn’t spend the whole day with Dean, and who knows what that boy managed to get up to while he was alone?

It’s not Sam’s chosen course of action, but it’s action and that’s what he needs right now. He’ll do anything to bring him one step closer to finding Dean, so he agrees.


	4. Chapter 4

Day Three  


Sam's frustration is palpable now. Bobby's been trying to get him to calm down for over an hour now. Yesterday's investigations proved fruitless. Sam knew they would be and it takes all his willpower not to say 'I told you so'.

Bobby's sitting at the rickety table, going through Dad's journal. He said he's looking for something Sam might have missed but Sam knows full well there's nothing in there he hasn't been over a thousand times already. He knows Dean so well. He knows John well enough. He knows there are no clues to his brother's whereabouts in that book.

Whatever this mess Dean's gotten himself into, he's managed it all by himself. Part of Sam is hoping he's just got caught by an irate father or husband. But he knows in his heart that's not the case. Dean's been in that situation enough times to know how to avoid it and, if he can't, how to extricate himself. The fact that this is the third day with no word from his brother tells Sam it's not a problem of the female variety that's keeping Dean away.

Then Bobby sighs and slams the book shut, just like Sam knew he would. He stands and scrubs his hand through what's left of his hair. Sam watches him from his perch on the edge of Dean's bed. He doesn't realise he's absently twisting his fingers in one of Dean's discarded shirts until Bobby raises a pointed eyebrow at him. He stills his motion but holds on to the shirt. It's as if it's his last link with his older brother and he's damned if he's going to let go of that.

Bobby hoists himself out of the chair and casts his eye over Sam. Sam needs to sleep but Bobby knows that's not going to happen for a while so the next best thing he can think of is sustenance. The fridge is empty, they finished the last of the beers the previous evening and the can of soda sitting on the windowsill is lukewarm. He grunts at Sam, indicating he's going to get ice and lets himself out of the room quietly.

Sam watches him go with hollow eyes and his fingers start their journey twining around the fabric of Dean's shirt again.

***** 

Dean's been awake for a while now. The rats are gone but they've left their mark. Dean's ankles and shins are throbbing painfully and although he thinks the bleeding has stopped there's bound to be a whole shed load of infection setting in round about now. He can already feel the heat on his face and he's sure he doesn't normally sleep this much in tricky situations.

There's a dull ache in the crook of his elbow again and he knows he wasn't bitten there. He has a sinking feeling that someone is injecting him with something but its too dark in here to tell and he's still got his hands tightly bound behind him.

He realises he needs the bathroom and somewhere in the back of his mind he's amazed he's managed to hold out this long. He shuffles around a little, trying to gain some purchase with his feet against the ground but the floor is wet and his feet simply slide at every attempt. He resists the impulse to bang his head against the ground but it does little to help the pressure on his bladder.

He knows this game, he thinks. It's all about humiliation. He can't move, can't see, doesn't know where he is, where Sammy is and now he's going to do something he hasn't done since he was three years old and overexcited. Knowing there's nothing he can do about it, he grits his teeth and lets go.

***** 

Bobby bursts through the door as if he has the devil on his tail. Sam drops the shirt and is on his feet, gun out and aimed, before he realises it's just Bobby and nobody is with him. He stares at the older man in amazement, wondering when he last saw such energy.

Bobby face is virtually glowing and he's moving towards Sam so fast the Winchester boy takes a step backwards, hitting the edge of the bed he was just sitting on. Bobby grasps his shoulders and the smile that cracks across his face is a confusing sight for Sam. When he went out for ice, which is notably lacking, Bobby was a sombre as a judge. Now he looks like a four year on a trip to Disneyland.

"The desk clerk saw something," he tells Sam, and that's all Sam needs to hear. He's throwing his jacket on, stowing knives and guns into place about his person and grabbing the keys to the Impala. Bobby watches him with a mixture of amusement and sadness. Sam hasn't even stopped to hear what it was the clerk saw. He doesn't care. It's a lead and it's more than he's had to go on for days now.

Bobby throws a hand out to halt Sam's frenzied activity and catches hold of his arm, gently. Sam glares at him and for a second Bobby knows what it's like to be on the receiving end of the younger Winchester's wrath. He holds his hand up in mock surrender while he quickly recounts what he's learnt.

The clerk did see something, just not very much. She was bored, heard a commotion in the parking lot and saw a blue truck tearing down the road. It's not a lot to go on but Sam's been reduced to clutching at straws.

He's going to drive up and down every damned avenue, street, lane, alleyway and back road and he's going to tear the doors off every blue truck he sees between here and there.

***** 

Dean knows he's dehydrated and he knows if he doesn't get something to drink soon getting out is going to be pretty academic. He's been able to hear something dripping for some time now but he's too weak to even raise his head. Rule of three. That's the only thing going through his mind now. Three minutes without air, three days without water, three weeks without food. He's on day three and there's been no sign of anyone or anything other than the rats.

A sudden sharp pain erupts in his back as a booted foot connects solidly with his kidneys. He didn't realise he was so far out of it. He can't hold back the cry as another foot, possibly the same one, makes contact with his bound wrists and he's not sure, but he thinks he heard a bone crack.

Then there's light and his eyes feel as though they're trying to crawl back into his brain. His eyelids slam down of their own volition, shutting out the light and the pain it brings. It sends shockwaves through his head and he knows the headache isn't the concussion alone any more.

There are hands on his body now and he struggles valiantly to get away but he knows from the outset it's going to be a losing battle. He's not eaten for three days and his muscles are already wasting away. He should open his eyes, he really should. Get a look at whoever is manhandling him into a standing position, dragging him to another corner of this hovel.

Another set of hands now is spinning him around, yanking his bound hands up and back till he has no option but to bend at the waist. Then there's a knife slicing through his bonds, catching his skin mercilessly, drawing blood. He thinks his arms are still attached to his body but he can't feel anything below his elbows.

But he doesn't really have much time to worry about that as his feet are kicked from under him, none too gently, and he crashes to floor, face first. There's no time to get his hands in front of him before impact and he wonders, as he feels the warmth of blood pouring down his chin, whether his nose is actually broken this time.

He's spun on to his back and he finally, finally manages to prise his eyes open. Just a squint but better than nothing. It doesn't help. There's a light shining directly into his eyes and everything beyond is just a hazy silhouette. He does work out there are at least two other people down here with him. Two very large people, and not for the first time he really wishes Sam was here with him.

They don't say a word, even when Dean grunts at them and kicks out weakly with one foot. He gets a brief moment of satisfaction when the foot connects with something but it's short lived as his feet are pulled away and down, secured firmly to what Dean can only assume are a couple of iron rings fastened to the floor. He can't bite back the cry of pain when his arms are subjected to the same treatment. His ribs are screaming at him and all he wants is to give in to the darkness hovering round the edge of his sight.

He closes his eyes and the torrent of water on his face is an icy shock. He automatically opens his mouth to allow the sudden intake of breath his body seems to be demanding. It has the added bonus of giving him some much needed liquid and in the back of his mind he thinks that at least he won't die of thirst just yet. He'd never welcomed water so much in his life.

If only he'd known.

***** 

Bobby's getting ready to hit something, anything. Sam is beginning to wear on his nerves and if he's not careful he's going to find himself on the receiving end of Bobby's fist.

Bobby knows how hard this is on the boy, but they've driven round this hellhole of a town for the last three hours and they've only seen three blue trucks. One belongs to the local schoolmistress, one to the hardware store and the last is so dilapidated Bobby would be surprised if it had moved from it's spot on the garage forecourt in the last twenty years.

Sam's all for knocking down doors and cracking heads to get answers but as Bobby points out to him, repeatedly, these people don't know anything. Why would they? He's beginning to think whoever, or whatever, took Dean has been on their tail for some time now. It wasn't a random attack. Dean's assailants knew what they were up against. How else would Dean have been taken so easily.

Bobby loves these boys like they were his own. Sam is falling apart in front of his eyes and there's nothing he can do about it. He could give him a manly hug but he doesn't think Sam would be receptive to that at the moment. He's on a real short fuse right now and Bobby's not going to be the one to set off that explosion.

But then, just as he's about to suggest they return to the motel, not a suggestion Sam is going to take well, he spots something. Something that sends his heart plummeting to his feet and turns his stomach in ways it wasn't designed to turn. He looks across at Sam and thanks God that he's not seen it yet.

It's lying under the wheel of the truck on the garage forecourt, catching the dying sun, glinting teasingly. Bobby wonders how he's going to get to it before Sam cottons on to it. He needs to be 100% sure before he raises Sam's hopes any more than he already has.

But he needn't have worried. Sam is so lost in his own thoughts he doesn't ever register Bobby's movement. Bobby can't decide whether that should worry him or not and decides he's got enough worries at the moment. He's across the forecourt and back again before Sam snaps out of whatever trance he's in, turning the object over and over in his hand. Sam looks up at him and raises his eyebrows, gaze on Bobby's find. He recognises it instantly.

It's Dean's pendant.

***** 

Dean wishes they had just talked to him. The silence is starting to get to him. He's never really needed people around him per se. Just Sammy. And Dad. But this complete lack of communication is unnerving and he'd give anything for just a few spoken words.

They've left him fastened, spread eagled on the floor, completely helpless. At least before he had a small range of movement. Now there's nothing. He's held so tightly he can't even move a centimetre. He feels more vulnerable than he's ever felt before and he doesn't like it.

The darkness is back again but he can just make out a sliver of light under a door from his new position. It gives him some sense of time but that's about it. He stares at it continually. It gives him something to focus on other than the hopelessness of his situation.

He stiffens when he sees shadows passing by the door. He reflects that watching it might not have been such a good idea. He hears the floorboards above him creaking and pipes groaning in the distance.

Then a drop of water landing in the centre of his chest startles him. It's icy cold. Another follows. Then another. For want of anything better to do, Dean counts. He gets to ten and the next drop falls. It's another direct hit on his chest. By the time the sixth drop falls he's starting to wriggle, trying to shift so the water falls on another part of his body. But it's useless and by the time drop number 20 hits, Dean is wet and cold.

And it's starting to hurt.


	5. Chapter 5

Day Four

Dean is wet. He's been wet for the best part of 24 hours now but time means nothing to him any more. His shirt is soaked through and the water has crept down his body and his jeans are sodden and clinging uncomfortably to his legs. His face is wet too but he doesn't realise the drops sliding down his cheeks started their journey from his eyes. He's beyond realising anything more now.

He's been released from his bonds but although he is no longer restrained he doesn't have the strength to do more than crawl to the relative safety of the wall. His brain is working at top speed but his thoughts have no direction. If he stopped thinking long enough to listen he would hear himself humming a tuneless melody.

Sam is over by the other wall. He's been there for a while now but he won't talk to Dean and that's driving him crazy. Since when do they not talk to each other? Dean can't understand why his brother is being so remote. Surely he can see Dean needs him? Why aren't they already out of this dark prison? Dean tries to call out to his brother again for the hundredth time but his voice is on strike and all he can manage is a strangled grunt, which Sam ignores.

Dean lets his head fall back on the wall, savouring the coolness of the stonework on his overheated scalp, and his eyes close as consciousness becomes a thing of the past.

Sam knows where to start looking now. Dean's pendant turned out to be a bigger clue than either Sam or Bobby could have hoped for. Sam had barrelled into the garage workshop, ready to open fire on anything that moved. Bobby had hung back as much as he dared, but with Sam on the warpath he didn't like to be too far away. He's held on to some sense of perspective even if Sam has none left.

The garage owner was scared but sympathetic once Bobby had interceded and explained the situation more rationally than Sam's ranting. Turns out the truck isn't his. It belongs to a customer, one who hasn't paid his bill for over six months. And yes, he does have the address which he's more than willing to give up if means getting Sam out of his workshop.

It takes Sam and Bobby over half a day to get to the address given by the mechanic. Sam swears most of the way there, quietly under his breath, but Bobby hears him nonetheless. The address takes them out of town, down dirty back roads no one would know existed, through woods and finally to a small hamlet of just three houses.

The address on the scrap of paper in Sam's hands is for the last house. Sam is out of the car before the engine has stopped and Bobby has to run to catch up with him. Sam pounds on the door with his bare fists and Bobby almost has to pull him away before he breaks the skin on his knuckles or the nose of the old woman who opens the door frustratingly slowly.

When Dean opens his eyes again, Sam is gone. He blinks to clear his vision but it doesn't help. He's alone again. Not even the rats are here to keep him company, which he supposes he should be grateful for. His throat is parched, despite the overall dampness of the cellar and his stomach hurts like hell. Not eating for four days will do that to a man but Dean never wanted to experience it for himself. Still, it gives him something to focus on for a while.

He tries to lift his head but it feels so heavy and the effort doesn't seem worth it. A little voice in the back of his mind is telling him to get up, to fight, but he's not listening to it. He can't get up, he can't fight. There's nothing here to fight. If there were some spirits down here he'd know what he was up against. He could deal with that. But there's nothing and Dean's never really been able to deal with nothing.

It's almost a relief when the shaft of light under the door appears again. The flood of artificial light as the door opens hurts his eyes and he can't help but screw them tightly shut. He hears footsteps and he knows he's shaking. Whether it's cold or fear or something else he doesn't know or care. He's vaguely aware that this might be his chance to escape.

Then a strong hand wraps itself around his forearm and the previous thought seems so ridiculous he bursts into manic giggles. He knows it's wrong but he can't stop himself, even when the hand yanks him forward painfully. He can't stop even when his knees scrape along the floor and he falls forward hard on to the ground, breaking his fall with numb hands.

And then the hand that pulled him forward so cruelly pulls him back up onto his knees. For the first time in four days someone speaks to him.

"What do you have to say for yourself, Winchester?"

Sam's thrown by the appearance of the woman before him. She's a little over 5 foot tall and as frail and wispy as the breeze through the trees. He's been in this game long enough not to be taken in by appearances though and his brother's life is at stake here.

He thrusts Dean's pendant into her face and watches as she takes an involuntary step back. He doesn't know if it's the force with which he threw his arm forward or the object he's holding that causes her reaction but when he looks at her eyes, he knows. She's seen the pendant before and that's all Sam needs.

He doesn't know he's curled his fingers into a fist until he feels Bobby's hand rest gently on his shoulder as he pulls Sam backwards, away from the woman. He's seen it too. They both know they're on to something but right now Bobby thinks he probably has more objectivity than Sam. He takes the pendant from Sam and, stepping in front of him, raises his eyebrows at the woman.

She's seen that look in a man's eyes before. It's not one to mess with.

Dean has nothing to say for himself. Mainly because he doesn't understand what the question was but also because he can't manage anything more than a hoarse croak. He's not used his voice for so long.

His body is shutting down, bit by bit. His voice has gone, his muscles are wasting away and his mind is on the way out. He's having trouble staying upright on his knees and if it wasn't for the hand clenched in his hair, he'd be flat on the floor by now. Somewhere in the back of his head he thinks this isn't the most dignified position for a hunter but he's absurdly grateful that someone, anyone, is talking to him.

Then he hears a sound he recognises. He'd know the sound of a gun being primed anywhere. He feels the cold metal of a barrel pressed hard against the base of his skull and thinks this is it. A warm puff of air by his ear startles him and he desperately tries to think of something to say, something to do, to save himself.

"Nothing to say, Dean?" the voice taunts him, "not even after all this time?" and Dean knows they're not just talking about the last few days. He knows this is it, this is an execution and he wishes he knew why.

He hears the hammer being pulled back and tries not to panic, tries not to think of all the things he meant to do, to say.

And as he hears the hammer fall, all Dean can think is Sam's too late.

Apparently Bobby can do scary just as well as Sam. It only takes one glare and the woman folds like a house of cards. Yes, she's seen the pendant before. Her son tried to give it to her just the other day but she didn't like it, not her style. So he took it away again.

Where's her son now? She doesn't know, or won't say. Bobby thinks it's the former although Sam is inclined to disbelieve her. What kind of mother doesn't keep track of her son? If he were thinking straight he might realise it's actually quite common. But he's not. All he's thinking of is getting Dean back. In one piece. Although as time passes he's getting more worried that's not going to be the case.

Bobby has his work cut out for him keeping Sam at arm's length from the woman. He knows Sam would never intentionally hurt an innocent woman, although her innocence is still to be proved, but the boy's almost at the point of frantic and frantic never makes rational decisions. A steadying hand on Sam's arm seems to do the trick as he backs off ever so slightly.

But she's seen the look on Sam's face and the steely determination in his eyes. It takes her a few more minutes but she finally realises Sam means business. He's ready to cause serious damage to something, or someone, and she doesn't want any part of that. Finally she surrenders and gives Bobby another address, a warehouse this time, and a name.

And Sam's blood turns to ice.

He knows that name.


	6. Chapter 6

Day Five

Bobby's been trying to get Sam to talk for over four hours now. The most he gets is a grunt and once, about 100 miles back, he's sure there was a curse in the grunt somewhere. Sam's driving like a maniac and Bobby really wishes he hadn't handed over the keys so readily. On reflection, he should have known Sam would become a racing driver if he thought it would get him to Dean quicker. He didn't know he'd get the silent treatment too.

The name Jefferson Watts means nothing to Bobby but he saw the look on Sam's face when the old woman threw it out there. He thought the younger man was going to pass out but the moment came and went before anyone else noticed it. Bobby wants to know all about this obvious history between the Winchesters and Watts. No, he thinks, he needs to know. If they're going to get Dean back, which they will, Sam can't keep secrets from him. It could be the difference between life and death for any one of them. And no, Bobby doesn't think he's being overdramatic when he tells Sam that.

*****

Sam glares out of the windscreen in reply at something only he can see and Bobby can feel the tension rolling off him in waves. He quells the impulse to slap some sense into Sam but only because he doesn't want to cause a crash. He tells Sam to slow the car down a bit, they don't want to draw any attention to themselves and doing the speed he is, Sam is a prime target for the traffic cops.

Sam just huffs and floors the gas pedal, the car burning up the miles through the night.

*****

Dean thinks he's opened his eyes but it's so dark in here now he could be wrong. The sliver of light from under the door is gone, taking with it his last link with reality. There's a buzzing in his ears and he's convinced it's the sound of the gun's hammer falling home. There was no bullet, just cruel, mocking laughter as the tears fell down his face and his body quivered with fear and regret. But in his muddled head, he almost wishes there had been. He thinks those last words spoken to him were significant, "When is an execution, not an execution?".

He remembers the cool steel of the barrel caressing the side of his cheek as the voice had whispered to him softly, before the butt of the gun came crashing down against his temple, sending him back to oblivion.

The buzzing isn't dying down though and Dean tries to raise himself up on his knees. He's pretty sure it's not just in his head now and he needs the noise to just shut the hell up before he loses what's left of his sanity. If he can track down that damned bumblebee he can just swat it to death and there'll be peace and quiet again. It's ironic that after all these days of despising the silence, now it's gone he can't take it.

The problem, Dean muses for a moment, is he has no strength left. He can't find it in himself to really care anymore and, as he collapses back down in an inelegant heap, at the back of his mind there's a niggling thought that tells him that's wrong.

*****

Sam knows he needs to share with Bobby, he really does, but the name written on the scrap of paper burning a hole in his pocket shocked him more than he was expecting. He's not stupid. He knew there would be something or someone behind all of this they knew, but Jefferson Watts? He thought the man was dead, he should be dead. Dean killed him long ago. Sam saw it with his own two eyes, so what the hell is he doing back here?

The countryside is rolling past them in the Impala and Sam can hear Bobby's gentle breaths. He feels somehow resentful that the older hunter is able to sleep. He knows it's an illogical emotion. He can't begrudge Bobby a little snooze and he's sure it's as restless as his own would be if he allowed himself the luxury of stepping back for a few minutes. After all, Bobby didn't have to come at all, he could easily have helped from a distance, might have been better overall. All his research books and papers are back at the yard. But Sam's glad he's here.

His eyes are starting to sting from driving for so long and he knows he's going to have to pull over soon. He's no good to his brother in pieces and if he keeps going much longer the Impala is likely to end up in ditch. The only way to move forward is to get Bobby to drive for a little while. But that involves waking him and Sam doesn't want the conversation he knows is going to have to take place as soon as Bobby is conscious. He hates keeping Bobby in the dark but he can hardly bring himself to think about Jefferson Watts, let alone discuss him and the events of nine years ago.

*****

The buzzing is getting louder now, and more persistent. Dean's tried to get up, to find it, but he can't. The effect of days of starvation are showing. The noise is quite literally doing his head in. There are wet tracks down his face again and he doesn't know why. He doesn't know anything any more. The noise has heightened his senses and along with the constant white noise he can feel every spec of grit under his hands, every ridge in the wall his head is lying against, every tiny breeze traversing his prison.

He wants Sam. He doesn't understand why he hasn't come yet. He thought Sam was here earlier but then why is he still here? The noise stops him thinking straight, he can't see beyond the end of his nose, which he thinks might be broken, and his brain can't hold a thought for more than ten seconds.

He thinks if he covers his ears, he might gain some relief but it doesn't help. All it achieves is dulling the buzzing to an even more annoying level. It's irrational but he thinks if he bangs his head against the floor he'll be able to knock the bee out of his ear. He tries it once, twice, three times, increasing what little strength he has each time. All it does is give him a headache.

He tries humming really, really loudly and when that doesn't help either, he cries. Not because he's given up, but because he doesn't know what else to do.

*****

Bobby slowly wakens from his sleep, feeling guilty for drifting off in the first place. He casts a glance at Sam, who is ignoring the fact Bobby's back with him. Bobby wants to laugh. Does Sam really think he's an idiot? He knows Sam knows he's awake. Bobby knows he doesn't want to talk but he's going to pull the 'more experience than you'll ever have' card soon if he has to.

He can play this game too, he thinks as he stretches, pretending to work out sleep embedded kinks in his shoulders and arms. He turns to Sam and studies him properly for the first time since they headed out to the warehouse. He's aware that the boy looks drained, emotionally and physically. He doesn't think Sam's slept more than four hours since this whole thing started. His hair is hanging limply over his collar and into his eyes and the shadows under his eyes are pushing his face into his early fifties.

He wonders how to start the conversation, the one Sam is desperate to avoid. He mulls it over in his head, trying out several angles. Eventually he decides to get straight to the point. Sam's brother is in great danger and now's not the time to start keeping secrets. He demands, gently, that Sam tell him who has his brother.

But the warehouse is in view now and Sam's not stopping for anything.


	7. Day Six ii

Day Six

The warehouse turns out to be a complete waste of time. Sam feels like crying. Every time he thinks his brother is within his reach, the Fates decide to play twisted games with him. He needs to vent, to scream at something but Bobby is the only person here. Sam knows, he knows, Bobby doesn’t deserve his venom but Sam’s despair is clawing at his very soul, demanding attention. He can’t help himself.

Bobby takes the brunt of it with surprising grace. Through his anger, frustration, desperation and fear, Sam knows Bobby will call him on his outburst one day. But not today.

He slams the door of the deserted office they’ve just entered, sending years of dust into orbit and causing Bobby to glare at him, irritated at Sam’s lack of discretion. Sam doesn’t care and shrugs, unrepentant. If anyone were here they would have fled the scene or made themselves known by now.

He turns to Bobby, irrationally seeing his failure to find Dean written in every crease and line on the older man’s face. He knows Bobby doesn’t blame him but he blames himself. He should have found his brother by now, should have him safely tucked away in some motel room by now. Hell, if he had gone missing, Dean would have found him within hours. He’s been dragging round this godforsaken town for so long now he thinks he’ll be dreaming about it for years to come.

Lost in his depression, Sam doesn’t notice Bobby turning out the drawers of the only desk left in the room. He doesn’t see him take a pile of old, browning letters. He doesn’t see the look on Bobby’s face as he reads through the fourth letter for a second time.

He does hear Bobby’s sharp intake of breath though and he sees the writing on the paper as Bobby waves it in front of his face.

***** 

Dean’s seeing things now. He must be. There’s no way that fighter jet could possibly be flying around the room. For starters, it’s far too small and way too quiet. It could be a stealth fighter, he thinks. Maybe it’s being flown by faeries. That would go some way to explaining it. And, on reflection, that damned buzzing he can still hear is about the right volume for the size of plane.

Maybe if he curls up into as small a ball as he can the gunner won’t see him and fire on him. Because he’s sure that’s going to happen any minute now. Why else would the demons have sent a fighter plane? He crawls into the nearest corner he can find, wincing as his scraped and battered body finds every stray nail and stone in the place.

The corner is cool and damp, but he feels safe here. He decides the fighter jet can’t find him here and relaxes slightly. But only slightly, because he’s still a hunter and a hunter never lets his guard down completely.

As the buzzing dies away into the distance, Dean allows his eyes to close. Just for a moment.

***** 

Bobby turns the piece of paper over in his hand two or three times, just to be sure he’s not missed anything. When he’s sure he’s reading it right he can’t quite hold back a curse. They were so sure Dean would be here but not only is he nowhere to be seen, they now have two more addresses to check out. The letter is from Jefferson Watts and it’s not a bedtime story. It’s a graphic description of his demise and resurrection which is enough to turn Bobby’s stomach. Dean’s name pops up from time to time and it’s with a sinking heart that Bobby hands the correspondence over to Sam.

He’s impressed that Sam doesn’t hit the floor. All the indications point that way, the sudden loss of blood from his face, the shaking hands, the wavering knees. Credit where it’s due though, Sam seems to push it all to the back and Bobby’s never been more proud of him. He watches as Sam’s eyes clear and the tiredness seems to wash away in an instant. He’s happy to follow Sam’s instructions now the boy is fully focussed again.

The address the letter was sent to doesn’t correspond to the warehouse. Nor does the address it was sent from. That leaves the two men a destination each. Bobby would prefer to stick together but it’s been six days now and Dean doesn’t have the time for them to hold hands and dance round handbags together. 

Sam insists on finding the letter writer’s abode and although Bobby is reluctant to let him, he knows it’s the more likely hiding place of this monster. He knows Sam needs to be the one to find Dean, he just hopes Sam can take it if the worst case scenario plays out.

***** 

Voices wake Dean. Not gently, but not violently either. For a brief minute he thinks it’s Mom come to get him ready for school. Then he remembers Mom’s gone. Has been for a long time. His second thought is that Sam has finally made it, that his baby brother has come for him, because he knows he will. His third thought, because Dad always said first and second thoughts are all well and good but it’s the third thought that makes the difference, is that he’s still alone and he doesn’t like it.

It’s been a long, long time since anyone came to see him. He’s not had any food for days and his only water has been what he’s managed to suck off the floor or off the dripping walls. It’s degrading in the extreme but at the time he only cared about staying alive. Now, he’s not so sure he’s even that bothered any more.

The voices have stopped, and he’s beginning to wonder if they were ever there. He suddenly realises with a shock there’s total silence. The buzzing has gone and there’s not sound from above. He uncurls a little, ignoring the protests from his weary body. Shoving himself into a sitting position, he wraps his arms around his knees, hugging himself to provide a little warmth. He’s not completely lost it, he thinks, he still has his survival techniques.

Then he freezes again. Though the darkness he spies a set of eyes. Yellow eyes. And he can’t get any further into the corner than he already is.

***** 

Sam insisted on taking the Impala. He dropped Bobby off in town, waiting while he hotwired car. He knows Bobby won’t waste time and although he trusts the older man with his life, and Dean’s, he’s impatient to be on his way.

It feels like forever to Sam but eventually Bobby has an engine running and Sam tears down the street, his destination burned into his mind like a brand. He won’t give up the impala for two reasons. He doesn’t want to bring Dean home in some nameless car he’s hotwired in a parking lot. And he’s going to need the arsenal hidden in the trunk.

It takes him longer than he wants to reach his destination and darkness is starting to fall. The house he’s arrived at looks deserted but his instincts tell him otherwise. His hunter’s senses are screaming out to him. He knows beyond a shadow of a doubt that he’s going to find his brother here. He refuses to think beyond that, refuses to even consider he might be bringing his brother’s body home. Dean is here and he will be fine.

He stops around the back, hiding the Impala as best he can in the tree lined track behind the house. He moves silently, opening the trunk, taking what he thinks he’ll need and some other things he doesn’t think he’ll need but he’s damned if he’s going to take risks with Dean’s life now. The trunk clicks closed quietly, so quietly Sam almost goes back to check he’s actually locked it.

He sidles up to the back door, peering through the window into the filthy gloom beyond. He can see silhouettes moving around carelessly, he can hear laughter and he feels his blood starting to boil. These people, things, in there are enjoying this. 

And at that moment he knows nobody but the Winchesters will be walking away from here tonight. 

***** 

Dean can’t tear his eyes away from the glowing orbs staring at him through the darkness. He wants his dad so badly, he wants his mom but most of all he wants Sam. He clings to one thought as the yellow eyes blink slowly, purposefully, at him and grow larger, nearer – Sam will come, Sam’s nearly here, Sam won’t abandon me. 

He wants to crawl into the wall behind him but he can’t. He’s starting to lose concentration, the eyes before him sliding in and out of focus, disappearing for seconds at a time. Just when he believes the demon behind them is gone, the eyes pop up again, brighter and more mocking than ever. He doesn’t realise he’s scratching the stonework beneath him. He doesn’t realise he’s opened up the cuts on his hands, doesn’t realise he’s bleeding again.

He can see hands now too. Long fingers reaching out towards his face, talon like nails scraping along his cheekbones. He whips his head round to the side, trying to escape the ice cold touch of those disembodied hands. He swears he can hear laughter. He’s sure there are a pair of blue lips appearing now, just below those yellow eyes.

And now he can hear movement above him.

He doesn’t realise he’s screaming. 

***** 

Sam doesn’t want to think about what he’s about to do. He knows in the back of his mind maybe this is going to push him over that fine line they walk every day. The one that distinguishes between hunter and cold blooded killer. But he’ll deal with that as and when he has to. He’ll never forgive himself if he loses his brother because of some sentimental weakness. His brother has been shown no pity, of that he’s sure, so why should he be merciful.

He barrels through the door, not giving his adversaries time to register he’s just one man. Weapons, primed and ready before he even left the Impala, are in full force. He ignores the recoil of his shotgun, ignores the splatters of blood as they spray the room and its occupants, himself included. He ignores the shouts of outrage and indignation. He ignores them as they turn to cries of panic, cries for help.

He throws the shotgun down, he’ll collect it on the way back, he thinks. In one swift move he has the iron stake in both hands and finally, finally, he’s ready for Jefferson Watts.

Jefferson Watts who is cowering behind a dresser in this dingy kitchenette, surveying his fallen army. Who suddenly doesn’t seem so scary and doesn’t feel so brave. If Sam ever had any sympathy for the man it doesn’t show. He wields his iron weapon with agility and skill that belies his exhaustion. Jefferson Watts knows his time is up for good this time, but he’s not going without a fight.

Thing is, he hadn’t reckoned on Sam Winchester’s determination to save his brother. At all and any cost. 

*****   
Dean flinches when he hears gunshots and the sound of bodies hitting the floor. The demon floating in front of him wavers and shimmers out of sight but Dean doesn’t trust it. It’s a demon after all and they don’t play by the same rules as everyone else. 

The noises from above sound terrifying to Dean’s muddled mind. He wonders if the ceiling will come crashing down on him. Then there’s silence. Still and oppressive silence. Dean can’t handle any more silence because he knows something’s going on, he just can’t string two thoughts together at the moment. He wants this to be over one way or the other.

He hears the door scrape open slowly, almost hesitantly. He sees the light streaming in through the doorway and he sees a figure standing there. All an open door means to him now is more pain, agonising pain, and humiliation. He tries to make himself as small as he can and whimpers in fear.

And then Sam is there.


	8. Day 7

Day Seven

Bobby stands by the motel door, watching for the lights of the Impala to appear through the blackness of the night. He’s got the first aid kit out and ready for action. Sam’s phone call told him nothing about Dean’s condition. At the time he was only relieved he’d been found. Now he’s beginning to wish he’d asked for a little more information. 

He’s looked up the nearest hospital and he already knows how quickly he could get there if the need arises. He knows if they can’t handle Dean’s situation they can be in an ER within 40 minutes. Of course, he thinks, he’ll need to drive. He can’t expect Sam to concentrate on the road and his brother at the same time. 

He’s got their story in his head already. He brought insurance cards with him when he got Sam’s first call, all those days ago. He doesn’t like being ‘dad’ but it was the easiest way to get these particular cards. 

The first aid kit sitting on the bed is pretty comprehensive. Bobby always comes prepared and he stopped off en route to replenish the bandages, the only item he was short of. He’s got a full stock of holy water and antiseptic. If anyone found his kit they’d wonder at his methods. But nobody knows what sort of injuries he’s had to deal with in his time. He glances back and nods to himself. Yep, he’s got everything he’s going to need. And, if all else fails, there’s a pharmacy he noted in town that appears to have appalling security. He reckons he can get anything else from there with little effort. 

***** 

Sam can just about make out the lights of the motel in the distance. He doesn’t know, or care, how fast he’s been driving. He can hear Dean’s breathing falter from time to time and it’s all he can do not to pull over and check on his brother. He bites his lip and gives the road his full attention. 

He knows Bobby will be waiting for them. He knows all he has to do now is get Dean home. But he wants to reach back and feel Dean’s warmth, reassure himself he’s bringing home a real, living brother and not a lifeless body. There’s no way he’s even going to consider that option.

The last three miles feel like crossing an ocean of custard. When he finally sees the welcoming sign of the motel up ahead he feels a weight lift from his shoulders. Dean is, and always will be, his responsibility but not a mile away is unconditional help and support. Sometimes Sam wishes Bobby was his dad, then he feels guilty for thinking that, but at the moment his head is full of Dean.

He winces as the Impala squeals to a halt in the parking lot and he can’t stop himself looking back at Dean, expecting, hoping, to see his brother glaring at him for mistreating his beloved car this way. But there’s nothing. Dean is still out cold, one hand trailing on the floor, the other flung above his head.

Sam sees Bobby making his way to the Impala and he thinks that he can finally relax a little, relinquish little of his burden.  
***** 

Bobby helps Sam get Dean settled on the bed. He’s shocked at the sight of the older Winchester. Dean’s skin is pale and waxy. His breathing is ragged and every so often he flinches unconsciously. Bobby wants to get his hands on the people or things that did this to Dean but Sam still hasn’t shown any inclination to share on that score.

He sits back and lets Sam tend to his brother as best he can. He’s there to pass wipes and dressings when required. He tries not to show his shock when Sam pulls Dean’s pants up and uncovers numerous tiny wounds on his shins and ankles. If Bobby had to hazard a guess he’d say they were animal bites. Whatever they are, they’ve been there a while. Long enough to be red and inflamed, oozing puss. Bobby’s guessing hygiene wasn’t high on the list of hospitalities offered.

If it were down to him, he’d simply cut Dean’s clothing away but Sam seems to have some misplaced sense of loyalty here. He’s trying to tend to the wounds whilst affording Dean as much dignity as possible. Bobby can see where the boy’s coming from but this is taking too long. Dean needs to be cleaned as quickly as possible. The stench coming from him isn’t just unpleasant, it’s unhealthy.

He tries to tell Sam they need to strip Dean down completely and wash him but Sam seems to have switched his hearing off. Eventually Bobby decides actions speak louder than words. He retrieves the sharpest knife he has and, ignoring Sam’s glares, slides the blade down over Deans’ shirt, slicing it away from his body.

He tries not to notice the way Dean flinches away from the cold steel which comes into contact with his skin, however much he tries not to touch the younger hunter. He focuses on the expanse of skin revealed to him. He wants to shield Sam from this sight but Sam is right there, next to his brother, hand hovering cautiously over his brow.

Bobby and Sam can both see the damage. They can see the bruises, the purples and blues mottling Dean’s chest and arms, the goosebumps rising to the surface. Bobby can’t help but hear Sam’s shaky breath. He wants to reassure Sam, tell him it’s not his fault, he couldn’t have stopped this. But he knows that’s not what Sam wants to hear and if Sam Winchester doesn’t want to hear something, he simply shuts down that part of his brain. It’s a talent he’s perfected over the years.

Together they set about the task of cleaning and caring for Dean.

*****

Dean returns to consciousness slowly, cautiously. He feels odd, different somehow. Something’s not right. Then he realises he’s lying on something soft and clean. That’s what he didn’t recognise. Cleanliness. Wherever he is, it’s not the last place he remembers.

He thinks he remembers Sam talking to him, touching him, rescuing him. But he doesn’t want to open his eyes because he can’t stand the disappointment when he’s wrong. Because he will be wrong. If he feels clean it’s because he’s dead. That’s the only explanation he can come up with and he’s filled with an overwhelming grief. Not for himself, but for Sam, for all the things his brother is going to have to overcome by himself, for everything he should have said to him and for all the things he was meant to save Sam from. The grief is too much for him and the darkness at the edges of his mind seeps through his thoughts and consciousness becomes a thing of the past.

The next time Dean wakes, he forgets not to open his eyes. He wishes he’d remembered as the light is too bright, too harsh. He can’t help himself and little cry escapes his lips as he screws his lids tightly shut. Then there’s the sound of movement and the touch of a hand on his arm. He pulls back as far and as fast as he can. He’s not in heaven, he thinks, he’s in hell. 

He doesn’t get far before he hits a solid object and there’s another hand on his shoulder, holding him down. He tries to fight it but he’s so weak he might as well be trying to rip an iron girder apart with his bare hands. Then there are voices, soft and soothing. He knows that voice. It takes him too long to place it but eventually a face appears in his memory. Bobby.

And he knows he’s in Hell for sure, because Sammy isn’t here to help him.

***** 

Sam hates holding Dean down but he’s going to hurt himself, writhing around on the bed like this. He doesn’t want his brother to fall off, the floor is cold and unforgiving and god knows what’s embedded in the carpet.

He and Bobby made short work of dressing Dean’s wounds. Sam feels lightheaded with relief that it wasn’t as bad as he’d expected. Dean’s wrists are torn but once they had cleaned away the dried blood caking the wounds, it became apparent the damage is superficial. Antiseptic cream and bandages are enough. His ankles and shins are dealt with and when he wakes, Sam is determined to get a broad spectrum antibiotic down his brother. Bobby brought a selection and Sam knows it’s the best he could find.

No, Sam’s not worried about the physical side of things. Dean’s had worse injuries than this before. Hell, Sam’s been worse off than this. What Sam is worried about, dreadfully worried about, is Dean’s state of mind. He knows Dean like the back of his hand and he knows that trying to get Dean to open up is like nailing jelly to the wall. But he knows these last six days will be branded into his brother’s brain and if he’s going to get past it, he’s going to have to share. Sam won’t push, but he will insist, gently, that it’s done.

So he sits beside Dean’s bed, gratefully accepting the coffee and sandwiches Bobby supplies at regulars intervals, and waits for his brother to wake up.


	9. Chapter 9

Day Eight

The first time Dean wakes, it doesn’t last long. He opens his eyes long enough to work out he’s no longer in the cellar. And that’s about as much as he can manage before he’s asleep again.

The second time Dean wakes he manages to turn his head to the side, to look at the man sitting beside him, hand on his arm. He stays awake long enough to realise he’s in no immediate danger, although he’s still not sure he’s not dead.

The third time he wakes, Sam’s ready for him. 

As he slowly becomes aware of the soft lighting in the room he’s in, he feels a hand running gently through his hair and for one brief minute he imagines Mom’s touch on his head. Reality always has a habit of kicking in though and the next thing he’s aware of is a throbbing pain in his legs and a killer of a headache.

He thinks he’s hungry but it could be thirst because as soon as Sam realises he’s awake there’s a glass of cold water and a straw in front of his face, a cool, strong hand at the back of his neck. And that first sip is oh, so good.

He doesn’t understand why the drink is taken away from him so soon. He can hear a voice talking to him but his concentration is on that glass so near and yet so far from him. Eventually the voice stops being noise and starts being words. Words he can’t understand but in a tone he knows so well. 

He leans back into the touch at the base of his skull, seeks sanctuary within the strong fingers curling round the nape of his neck. He’s beginning to recognise more things around him. He knows the hand belongs to Sam, he can smell his brother’s breath, subtly minty with hints of coffee, and he knows he can relax at last.

He closes his eyes and falls forward onto Sam’s shoulder.

***** 

Sam lets Dean rest his head on his shoulder. He leaves his hand where it is, reluctant to let go. Dean is trembling slightly which he supposes is only to be expected after the ordeal he’s been through. He feels helpless but at the same time he knows this is what Dean needs right now.

He’s surprised to feel Dean’s hand snake round his back. Dean Winchester does not hug people. Ever. Sam knows it’s bad if Dean is the one reaching out for physical comfort. It’s normally Sam who instigates solace when he thinks it’s needed. He tightens his fingers around his brother’s neck and rests his chin softly on top of Dean’s head, ignoring the grime and grease in his hair.

Dean’s trembling, he notes, has got worse. His brother is borderline shaking and Sam doesn’t know what’s causing it. He looks to Bobby who is hovering inconspicuously in the corner of the room, there if he’s needed. But Bobby just shakes his head and tells Sam quietly that Dean just needs a little time.

So Sam moves his hands until he’s holding Dean properly and Dean melts into his brother’s embrace.

*****

Bobby watches the brothers from the corner of the room. He’s a little more dispassionate than Sam in this whole affair. Not much, admittedly, but enough to be able to take an objective view.

He’s happy Dean has woken up and appears to be staying awake for more than five minutes this time. He’s a little worried by his flushed face and when Sam is done, he’s going to see how hot the boy is. He’s ready with the antibiotics but redressing the wounds can wait until Dean is asleep again. Or unconscious, he muses. He hopes with all his heart it will be the former but he knows how Winchester luck goes.

He watches as Dean collapses into his brother’s arms and wonders whether to worry or be relieved. He can remember many occasions when he’s witnessed this scene in reverse over the years. He remembers Dean consoling a heart broken eight year old on having to leave another school, another best friend. He remembers an older brother holding a little brother through the pain of a first failed love affair. He remembers Dean comforting Sam after another argument with Dad. He knows Sam is repaying his brother and more, and it’s a brave man who’d come between the two boys in front of him.

He quietly lets himself out of the room, leaving the brothers to themselves, allowing them the space and privacy to reconnect.

*****

Sam hears the door click shut and doesn’t need to look up to know what Bobby’s done. He appreciates the man being here but he loves him even more for knowing when to back off. 

He turns his attention back to Dean, back to the brother he can’t help but feel he’s somehow failed. Dean’s skin is hot but not worryingly so. Sam is more concerned by the shaking that has overtaken his body. He tightens his hold, careful not to aggravate any injuries his brother has sustained when he notices a dampness on his shoulder.

He has to look twice to be sure because Dean Winchester, fearless hunter, older brother, superhero, does not cry. But he is. Because right now he’s not being a hunter or an older brother or a superhero. Right now he’s a little boy, hurting inside and out and he’s clinging on to the one constant in his life. The one thing he’s learnt to rely on and trust more than anything or anyone else in the world. 

The tears soaking into Sam’s shirt burn away at his soul. Every drop breaks his heart a little bit more because he wants to take the pain away. He would do anything to make this easier for his brother to get through. But he doesn’t know what demons Dean’s fighting. Dean’s not ready for that conversation yet. Any conversation yet.

So he holds his brother a little longer, his own face damp, and when Dean shudders through another suppressed sob, he lowers his face into Dean’s hair and hangs on just a little tighter.

*****

Dean feels the arms around him closing in and yet he doesn’t feel trapped. For the first time in days – he doesn’t know how many – he feels safe. He feels protected and loved. He’s not one for emotional outpourings and he doesn’t really understand this feeling. He’s a little overwhelmed by the rush of tenderness from the body next to his and it’s breaking down his barriers. Barriers he’s spent years and years erecting.

He knows it’s only Sam but that doesn’t make it any better. He’s spent his whole life being the strong one and to find himself in this position is humiliating. He doesn’t do weak and feeble and he certainly doesn’t need anyone to cuddle him through his nightmares. That need left when Mom left. He doesn’t want to be vulnerable, not in front of anyone, not even his little brother who knows him better than he probably knows himself. 

But he is. He is vulnerable and he needs this. He needs Sam to look after him and care for him. There were times, a lot of times, he didn’t think he’d be coming home and he was so scared. He can’t find it in him to care if Sam treats him like a four year old for a while. He’s tired and so what if he’s clinging to his brother for dear life? That’s what brothers are for he decides.

*****

Sam knows the exact moment Dean comes back to himself. He feels his brother’s muscles taughten and can tell almost to the second when Dean will pull back from him, retreat into himself and Sam doesn’t know if he’ll ever get him back. 

He doesn’t want to push Dean and when Dean finally moves away he gets a proper look at his face. He ignores the puffy red eyes, focuses on the green beneath, tries to read his brother’s mind. Once upon a time he could read Dean like a book but then something happened. Sam doesn’t know what or when but one day Dean just put up the shutters not even Sam could break through. 

Now though, the shutters are only half closed and Sam can see beyond the mask. Probably, he thinks, because Dean’s not himself yet. How could he be? He’s only been back a day and nearly all of that has been spent asleep, or unconscious. Sam can see the residue of fear in his face mixing with relief and a hint of embarrassment. One day Sam will mock Dean for the embarrassment, but not now, probably not for years to come.

Sam watches as Dean lies back on the lumpy pillows of the motel bed. He ignores his brother’s grimaces as aches and pains are jolted by the action. He rests a hand briefly on Dean’s forehead, checking his temperature. He gives Dean a long, appraising look, decides it’s time to start the antibiotics. He doesn’t know if Dean will keep them down, after all he’s looking painfully malnourished, he doubts high cuisine was on offer for his brother, but the sooner they start the medication, the sooner Dean will heal. 

***** 

Miraculously Dean keeps down the foul pills Sam insists on him swallowing. He feels the water he washes them down with hit his empty stomach and for a few minutes he’s convinced they’re going to make a reappearance. Judging by the look on Sam’s face he’s thinking the same thing. Sam even grabs the trash can, just in case.

When he’s happy everything is going to stay in place, Dean looks up at Sam. He’s a sight for sore eyes, Dean thinks, and he briefly wonders what the matter is. Sam shouldn’t be that tired, that gaunt and hollow round his eyes. Then it all comes crashing back to him. He can’t help but close his eyes against the rush of memories, the vestiges of sights, sounds and smells that assailed him over the last week.

Sam’s hand on his arm is a welcome touch. It brings him back to the present, back to the motel room and his brother. Reminds him he’s safe now. Grounds him. Gives him the strength to try out his voice.

“S’m?”

Dean seems to remember his voice working better than that last time he tried it and it makes him wonder what else isn’t working like it used to. But he doesn’t have time to worry about it for long because Sam’s face is there and his mouth is moving but Dean can’t seem to hear any words. Exhaustion has swept over him like a lover’s caress and as he closes his eyes he finally makes out two words, the sweetest words he’s ever heard.

“You’re safe.”


	10. Chapter 10

Day Nine

Bobby slips back into the room quietly, not wanting to disturb the Winchester brothers, to collect his belongings. He’s not going anywhere. He knows Sam isn’t ready to handle this on his own just yet, and besides Sam isn’t 100% okay himself either. Bobby thinks he’s going to be needed to pick up the pieces of more than one hunter before the week is out. No, he’s staying put but the boys need space now.

So he’s got himself another room. One that’s as close as he could get but still three doors down. But Bobby’s happy with that. Sam can always call him. Hell, he just needs to raise his voice and Bobby will be there like a shot.

A smile slips on to his face as he surveys the scene that greets him when he steps through the door. It looks like Dean has finally fallen into a peaceful sleep. Sam is propped up against the wall next to his bed, one hand resting on Dean’s arm and his head leaning on the mattress next to his brother’s head. Exhaustion has finally got the better of him and he’s snoring gently.

Bobby can’t help but check Dean’s temperature, which he’s relieved to find is much reduced from earlier, and his lower legs. The bruising on his face and chest is far more pronounced now but Bobby’s not concerned by that. It’s to be expected after a few days and in a few more days they will have faded to a dirty yellow he muses.

He turns his attention to Sam, frowning when he takes in the dark circles under his eyes and the lank hair falling into his face. He stops himself putting a hand out to the younger man, not wanting to disturb his much needed sleep. He reaches over to the other bed and drags the blanket off it. Gently covering Sam with it, he nods in satisfaction – he can’t do anything else here for now – and leaves a note informing the boys where he is. 

As he leaves, he takes one last look back at the two sleeping men and wonders why life always seems to deal them the worst hand.

***** 

Somewhere in the back of his consciousness Dean hears a door closing and he can’t stop the brief flare of panic that engulfs him. He jolts upright, instantly awake, registering a hand on his arm and before he knows it, a muted cry of fear has escaped his lips. He throws his arm up violently, throwing off the offending limb, and scrambles backwards as far and as fast as he’s able to.

His heart sinks when he encounters a wall and he swivels his head round to see if there’s an exit. His legs seem to be tangled up in something though and even if he could see a way out, he can’t get up. The fear he felt is rapidly turning to terror and he’s kicking out with both legs, feeling trapped and not achieving anything but he has to be doing something.

Then there are hands on his face, gentle yet firm, and his head is being turned slowly back to the room. He grabs hold of the wrists and tries to forces the hands away from him but he’s still pathetically weak and nothing happens. He tries shaking his head in an effort to dislodge them but all that does is remind him of the brutal headache he has.

Then he hears a voice and it’s a voice he knows. The panic subsides and he blinks rapidly, following the wrists to arms to a face. 

“Sam?”

***** 

Sam couldn’t be more relieved when Dean finally calms enough to recognise him. His brother’s struggles stop instantly and Sam is able to extricate his legs from the comforter which he’s managed to tie in knots around his ankles. He pretends not to hear the sigh of relief from the older man and moves back up to look his brother in the eye. 

He’s a little worried by the fear hiding at the edges of Dean’s eyes but he supposes it’s still early days and until Dean talks him through what happened there’s not a lot he can do about it. If there’s a particular trigger then he’ll find it and get rid of it.

In the meantime, he’s just happy to see his brother recognise him.

He leaves Dean’s side long enough to get the next round of antibiotics, stopping only to read Bobby’s note. Handing the pills to Dean with a glass of water he ignores the shaking hand that accepts them until the water threatens to spill over the edge. Gently taking the glass he helps Dean as best he can. 

After the pills and water, Sam decides his brother needs some form of nourishment. He’s not daft enough to suppose Dean is ready for burgers yet but he does need to eat something. He casts his eye around the room, hoping to spot some nutritious yet tasty snack to get Dean’s system working again. He knows he’s unlikely to find anything but sometimes miracles happen.

Yeah, right. Who does he think he’s kidding? He smiles at the irony of his own thoughts turning back to Dean who’s watching him quizzically. He pats him gently on the arm and tells him he’s going to call Bobby, get him to bring something to eat. It’s sad, he thinks, that Dean’s only reaction is a slow, unenthusiastic nod.

***** 

Bobby answers his phone before the first ring ends. Sam’s request fills him with hope and positivity. If Sam thinks Dean is ready to eat things must be looking up. He wonders what the best thing would be for the injured man. If it were down to him he’d try something dry first, maybe a little toast, and then if that stays down something like a banana. He knows Dean will mock his choices but he really doesn’t want to be the one who lets Dean starve after everything else he’s been through.

As he heads out to the store he looks back to the motel room, wondering what conversation could possibly be taking place in there. A part of him wants to be there but a bigger part of him just hopes Dean is finding the security to open up, to let Sam help him. 

But he also worries that Sam may not be as okay as he makes out. Because Sam had to do some pretty drastic things to get his brother back and while he would do it all over again without hesitating, Bobby knows Sam isn’t someone to let things go easily. Sam has a conscience. Bobby is concerned that he’s going to put his own feelings aside for Dean and Bobby knows no good will come of that. 

So Bobby needs to be ready to hold Sam together while he puts his brother back together.

***** 

As Dean watches Sam make the call, he decides the time has come to put his mask back on. He’s back home. Sam is here, Bobby will be back soon and all is right with the world.

Except it’s not. Not by a long shot.

Dean knows Sam is going to ask questions he doesn’t want to answer, doesn’t even want to think about. Sam is going to want ‘chick flick’ moments and ‘touchy feely crap’ and Dean isn’t ready for that. Doesn’t think he’ll ever be ready for that. He wants to pack his bags and get the hell out of here. Except he doesn’t have the strength to pack his bags yet, let alone drag them to the Impala and drive away.

So he does the next best thing. He shuts down. He tries not to think about the week just gone. He turns the conversation back on Sam. Where has Sam been? How long has Bobby been here? Is Sam hurt? Has Sam been looking after himself? Anything to stop his brother asking what happened.

Turns out, Sam is happy to avoid the subject. Dean wonders if that’s good or bad and decides that, on balance, it’s probably not a good thing. It means Sam either already knows, which makes Dean cringe, or he thinks it’s so bad bringing it up is going to throw Dean into a catatonic state of shock. 

So, in the end, it’s Dean who brings it up, which takes them both by surprise.

***** 

Bobby walks through the door just in time to hear Dean’s question. It doesn’t take a genius to work out that Sam wasn’t expecting to be asked who took Dean, especially not by Dean himself. He looks relieved to see Bobby and the older hunter wishes he had a simple answer for them. 

But he can’t help on this one because, in all that time, Sam never once told him who Jefferson Watts was. Bobby is almost as anxious as Dean to hear Sam’s explanation but one look at the boy and he decides now is not the time for confession, however good it’s supposed to be for the soul. Sam’s face has paled and Bobby realises he’s assumed Dean knew who had him. 

For a minute he thinks Sam is going to pass out and he belatedly wonders how much sleep he’s actually had. He steps forward, making his presence known, hoping Dean will let it drop for the time being.

But Dean is like a dog with a bone and the question is out there now, can’t be taken back. Bobby sighs and makes himself as comfortable as he can, watching both Winchester boys as Sam plants himself on his bed. For one ludicrous minute Bobby thinks it’s like getting ready for a bedtime story, although it’s doubtful the tale Sam is about to tell will help Dean sleep well tonight.


	11. Chapter 11

Day Nine part 2

 

On reflection Sam wonders why he’s so shocked. Dean’s memory is bound to be sketchy at best, so it’s not really a great surprise to find his brother has forgotten certain elements of his captivity. He didn’t really want to go through this though. Not yet. 

He lifts his head and looks Dean straight in the eye. He can sense Bobby moving round the room, as if he’s looking for the best position to be in. He can imagine the older man trying to decide which Winchester is going to be in need of the most comfort. Sam wills him to make his choice, wants him to settle by Dean, ready to catch him when he falls. Because Sam is sure Dean will fall. He’s sure his brother isn’t ready for this. He’s pretty sure he’s not ready for this yet.

But Dean is looking at him with that look. The one that pleads, begs, demands and persuades all in one. Sam isn’t sure when Dean perfected that look but he’s not be able to resist it since he was 12 years old. He vaguely wonders how Dad ever got round it.

But then Dean coughs and Sam’s attention is back on his brother. Who is propped up in bed, looking at him expectantly. He sighs, scrubs his hands through his hair, which badly needs washing, and reluctantly accepts that Dean isn’t going to relax until he gets an answer.

***** 

Bobby watches Sam keenly from his position on the hard chair by the table. He can see both boys from here and he reckons he can get to either one in a matter of seconds if the need arises. At the moment though, it’s Sam he’s worrying about the most. Sam, who looks as if Dean has just sucker punched him in the gut, who looks like he’s scrabbling for words in that almighty brain of his. 

He wants to put a stop to this but, as he listens to Sam draw breath, he knows it’s too late for that. He knows Sam needs to get this off his chest as much as Dean needs to hear it. It’s probably not the wisest decision he’s ever made to let them go ahead with this. Bobby thinks they’ve both been through enough, thinks they need more time to gather themselves back together, knows that ultimately he’s been overruled by the bonds of brotherhood.

Dean is looking at Sam anxiously, expectantly and Sam? He’s just looking worn out and resigned. Bobby bites his tongue, pushes down the desire to gather Sam in his arms, resists the urge to send both boys back to bed, to sleep. Instead, he gives Sam what he hopes is a reassuring smile, casts a sideways look at Dean, and settles back for the show.

***** 

Dean can see every little move Bobby makes. He’s not lost his ability to take in everything around him. He knows the older man is worried about Sam. He thinks he should be worried too, judging by the look on his brother’s face, but he has a sudden need to know what happened. He won’t be able to sleep until his questions are answered. He doesn’t think he wants to know but he needs to know.

But then Sam rocks his world with two words.

“Jefferson Watts.”

And the room is wavering, he can’t breathe, his head is going to float into the stratosphere and his body is failing him, falling back on to the soft mattress. He’s not sure who gets to him first, Sam or Bobby, but he knows there are arms around his shoulders, he’s being lowered gently down and there’s a hand on his forehead.

He wants to shake them off but all he can do is shake his head in denial.

“He’s dead. I killed him. Sam, he’s dead.” He repeats it over and over again. If he says it often enough, he thinks, maybe he can make it true.

The world is buzzing in his ears and he can vaguely hear a hissed conversation going on between Sam and Bobby. He hears Bobby telling Sam how he’s not ready for this, he hears Sam agreeing, ‘but this is Dean, what can I do?’ and he wants to tell them he’s okay, he can take this. But he doesn’t really understand.

Jefferson Watts was nine years ago. Jefferson Watts is dead. Nine years dead. Why is Sammy taunting him with this? It was a hell of a hunt, one of the worst Dean has ever dealt with. Even Dad agreed the only thing to do was kill the man. So he did. First man he ever killed. Only man he’s ever killed. And it wasn’t a clean kill.

A little voice in the back of his head is telling him that Sam would never lie to him about something like this. He wonders if it was a shapeshifter but when he finally manages to get his idea heard Sam’s eyes harden and he shakes his head.

“It was him, Dean.”

***** 

Sam could kick himself. What the hell was he thinking? There’s no way Dean’s ready for all the gory details. He’s almost glad Dean’s current state of health stopped the conversation before he had to go any further. 

Dean’s looking up at him with frightened eyes and it breaks Sam’s heart to see it. He’s still muttering under his breath, still trying to convince himself Sam’s wrong. Sam thinks he needs to put a stop to this but Dean is slowly curling in on himself and Sam thinks it’s already gone too far. He feels helpless and looks to Bobby for support. 

Bobby’s not much help though. He just shrugs at Sam and draws Sam away from Dean, out of his hearing. Sam is reluctant to leave Dean’s side but Bobby is insistent, fingers closing round his arm, gentle but firm.

***** 

Bobby isn’t going to let this drag out any longer than it has to. He saw the look on Sam’s face, he saw Dean’s reaction and he knows now they’ve started they need to finish, for Sam’s sake as much as Dean’s. He wonders if Sam is going to get through the telling without the need for medicinal aid himself and, although it’s still early in the day, he puts a glass of whiskey in Sam’s hand, glares at him till it’s gone and Sam’s spluttering through the burn.

He slaps the boy on the back and steers him back to his brother, point made. Dean isn’t looking much better but, on the plus side, he’s not muttering anymore. Bobby checks his temperature, uses redressing Dean’s wounds as an excuse for the boys to take a breather, to let Sam gather his thoughts, line his words up as best he can.

He’s taken by surprise when Dean’s hand lands on his shoulder as he’s bent over the wounded man. He looks up, sees Dean’s eyes flickering from Sam to himself and back to Sam again. He understands these boys better than they think. He knows Dean is shutting out his own feelings, again, and worrying about Sam. 

He wants to put an end to whatever train of thought Dean’s on right now. He rests his hand on Dean’s face, pulls his head round to look him in the eye, and tells him as plainly as he can that Sam’s okay, just a little tired and wouldn’t they rather do this tomorrow?

It’s no great shock to Bobby when Dean shakes his head and pulls away from him.

***** 

 

“Sam?”

Sam hates how feeble his brother’s voice still sounds, he hates the unvoiced question, he hates that Dean isn’t going to rest until he’s told the whole story. He wonders how much Dean remembers of Jefferson Watts, how much detail he’s going to have to go into. If he’s honest with himself he only wants to go over the bare minimum. He doesn’t think Dean needs to know everything, not yet. Maybe in a few weeks, when he’s recovered more, maybe then.

But looking at his brother’s face, with the bruises settling nicely into his features, Sam knows he’s going to have to make a start. So he takes a deep breath, makes sure Bobby is still in lunging distance, checks Dean is as ready as he’s going to be, and makes a start.

***** 

Bobby grits his teeth and prepares himself mentally for the fallout as Sam opens his mouth. But as Sam begins to talk he finds his attention is fully on the younger Winchester. Sure, he’s got Dean in the corner of his eye, but he’s totally focussed on the words coming out of Sam’s mouth, soaking in what he’s telling his older brother.

He listens, fascinated in a macabre sort of way, as Sam reminds Dean how, nine years ago, he wasn’t to blame, how Jefferson Watts had it coming. He was an evil man and just as much a monster as the demons and black dogs and werewolves Dean had dispatched before that. He committed atrocious crimes and he had to be stopped. 

He watches as Sam perches opposite Dean and lays a hand on his thigh. He sees the look of compassion and love as Sam reassures Dean that no, it wasn’t an easy death for Watts but it had been Watts or Sam and Dean had had to make a choice and nobody could ever blame him for the road he took. 

Dean never really had a choice, Bobby knows that without being told but somehow he thinks maybe Dean always thought he should have been able to save both Sam and Watts. He knows the Winchesters well enough to see how their minds work and he knows Dean will have pushed this to the back of his mind for years, letting it eat away at his conscience, quietly and pervasively.

He listens as Sam quickly recounts their movements and actions over the last week, noting with interest the parts he glosses over. He wonders if he’s ever going to find out exactly how Sam got from the Impala to the basement. He was with Sam, he knows how the boy felt, he knows how exhausted and desperate he was at the time and he knows that, deep down, Dean must know it too. 

And he knows that any minute now one or other of the Winchesters is going to crack.


	12. Chapter 12

Day Ten Part 1

Dean thinks it’s probably time he got out of bed. He’s been lying here for over three days and it doesn’t sit well with his nature. He likes to be moving, doing something. Sam is asleep and Bobby is in his own room. There was a glass of water on the bedside table but Dean finished that a while ago and he’s thirsty. He’s been awake for about an hour. At least he thinks it’s been an hour. It could be longer. Either way, he doesn’t want to think about yesterday’s revelations and if he stays in bed he’s not going to be able to distract himself. 

He’s sensible enough to know he’s not going to get far under his own steam but he doesn’t want to wake Sammy. He wants to regain some independence. It’s getting embarrassing to ask his brother for help every time he needs the bathroom.

Swinging his legs over the edge of the bed, he regards his shins with detached interest. Bobby has been dressing them every night before taking his leave of the Winchesters and Dean is impressed by the clinical neatness of them. He shouldn’t really be surprised, Bobby’s been doing this type of things for years. The wounds beneath the stark white bandages are healing nicely and he’s pretty sure he doesn’t need the coverings any more. But Sam insisted and he didn’t have the energy to argue.

He glances across at his brother who is showing no signs of waking up and Dean is inexplicably relieved. He doesn’t want to fall flat on his face while Sam is watching. If he’s going to fail at this, he’ll do it alone.

He presses his feet down on the floor, feeling the coarse carpet between his toes, and pushes himself upright with his hands. The room wobbles briefly and he sways gently with it. It takes a few minutes for his head to clear enough to make an attempt at walking unaided. Then he sets his sights on the bathroom door and takes his first tentative step.

***** 

Sam cracks his eyelids open at the first creak of his brother’s bed. He’s been wondering how long Dean was going to stay an invalid. He surreptitiously watches Dean slowly make his way across the motel room, noting how he sways from side to side and how he seems to be avoiding the direct line approach to his destination. He knows Dean won’t appreciate any offer of help, so he stays where he is, keeping an eye on him, just in case.

When Dean finally reaches the bathroom door, Sam wants to cheer. It’s only a minor victory but to him it’s a sign his brother is becoming Dean again, reclaiming who he is. Sam closes his eyes again, and relaxes. He didn’t realise how tense he was and reflects, with a modicum of guilt, that he was waiting for Dean to fail. He should have more faith in his brother by now. He knows how damned determined Dean is.

It takes him a little while longer to notice that Dean’s taking a long time in the bathroom, longer than he would have expected even allowing for his physical limitations at the moment. He’s up and at the door without really being conscious of his actions. He can’t hear water flowing or any other sign of life from behind the door. Biting his lip, he raises his hand and knocks gently, calling his brother’s name at the same time.

The silence that greets him sends a shard of panic shooting through his body and he grasps the door handle, thankful Dean didn’t lock it behind him. Pushing the door open he’s over the threshold and into the small room in the blink of an eye.

Dean is sitting on the cold tile floor, back resting against the bathtub, looking up at Sam with watery eyes, flushed cheeks and a self deprecating smile on his face. Sam’s not sure, but he thinks he can see Dean trembling.

“Guess I wasn’t ready to go it alone after all,” he mutters.

***** 

Dean doesn’t like the look on Sam’s face after his admission. He doesn’t like the fact he’s the one that put it there but he was so sure he was capable of this. On the other hand, he muses, he’s glad Sam’s here because he was starting to wonder how long he could sit on this cold floor. He’s had enough of cold, damp places to last a lifetime. 

So he accepts Sam’s outstretched hand and hauls himself upright. He ignores the hand at his elbow, pretends he’s doing Sam a favour by letting him help. He’s angry at himself for not being strong enough to carry out even simple tasks for himself yet. He thinks it’s ridiculous he can’t even get out of bed alone. And somewhere, deep down, he knows he’s being irrational.

He lets Sam guide him back to the bed but he can’t face getting back in. That would make his failure complete in his eyes. He can’t tell Sam that though, he won’t make his failure public, not even to Sam. He shakes his head and points at the table. He doesn’t look at Sam, doesn’t want to see the disapproval in his eyes.

The chair is hard and Dean’s having trouble keeping a clear head. His stomach is unsettled but he convinces himself that’s just vertigo raising its head after being horizontal for so long. He swallows hard, manages to keep what little he has inside him down and finally lifts his head. 

He’s not surprised at what he sees. Sam is standing right in front of him and at any other time he would make a snarky comment about personal space, but his brother has a glass of water in one hand and a couple of pills in the other. He thought he was done with the antibiotics and raises a quizzical eyebrow.

“Anti nausea pills,” Sam tells him and Dean accepts them without another thought. Of course Sam would know what he needs.

He watches as Sam pulls up another chair and makes himself comfortable opposite him, eyes him warily as he drags a hand over his face and opens his mouth.

“What happened in there, Dean?” he asks and Dean thinks he can’t escape now even if he was capable of unhindered movement.

***** 

Sam has a hundred different scenarios running amok in his head and he doesn’t like any of them. He wonders for a minute how Dean is going to evade his question but he’s not going accept ‘I needed the bathroom’ for an answer. They both know full well that’s not what he’s talking about. He wants to know what left Dean on the floor, shaking and on the verge of tears. Again. 

He’s pretty sure his brother is suffering flashbacks and he wants to help. But Dean has to let him in, has to share. Otherwise he’s never going to get past this. He can almost see Dean clamming up in front of him and part of him wants to reach out and shake some sense into him. Sam knows that’s not the way forward and definitely not the way to treat someone suffering from PTSD, because that’s what this is, but he can’t help his own feelings. He’s already wreaked revenge but when he sees Dean like this, he’d like to do it all over again. And that’s not a healthy attitude either.

“Dean?” he prompts, resting a hand on his brother’s leg, pulling Dean out of whatever memory he’s running through.

But when Dean meets Sam’s eyes, Sam almost wishes he’d left this alone. Dean looks sad and Sam isn’t used to that. Dean doesn’t do sad. He does angry, vengeful, pissed, snarky. A whole array of emotions but rarely sad. Sam wonders if this is the onset of depression and makes a mental note to read up on it. 

“Tell me, Dean,” he presses on. “Please?”

But Dean is shaking his head, slowly and rhythmically, hypnotically, and Sam doesn’t like the way his eyes have glazed over. He has to strain to hear Dean when he finally gains his voice.

“I can’t, Sammy.” It’s small and broken and so unfitting for the Dean Sam knows and wants back. 

“Please, Dean. I want to help you.” Sam’s aware he sounds as pathetic as Dean but there’s nobody here to witness this and he knows this conversation will never leave these four walls. “You have to let me help.”

***** 

Dean bites down hard on his lower lip, tries to ignore the tears burning at the back of his eyes. He’s not going to cry. He’s Dean Winchester after all. He’s stronger than this, a hardened hunter. He’s seen everything imaginable to man and more and never batted an eyelid before. He isn’t some 8 year old schoolboy worried about having his lunch money stolen by the class bully.

And he knows if he opens up to Sam then the floodgates will open and he won’t be able to stop. Everything that happened to him, everything he felt and thought, it’ll all come out. But Sam is pleading with him and since when has he been able to deny his little brother anything? It’s his dad’s fault, he thinks. 

“It was the water.” he finally manages. And he knows that makes no sense to Sam. He can see the confusion in the younger man’s eyes and knows he needs to clarify it. But the words seem to stick in his throat. So in the end all he can come up with is ‘it was dripping’ and he waves vaguely in the direction of the bathroom.

And it was. The tap was dripping and once he was in there it was all he could hear. The world faded out around him and all he could think of was the water dripping down from the ceiling and landing on him, again and again and again. And he couldn’t get the image out of his head. He could feel the pain starting again and when he thought it couldn’t get any worse the water would drip into the bathtub again, and the whole cycle started up again.

But he doesn’t know how to explain this to Sammy. He doesn’t know how to put into words how scared he was, how much pain he was in, how he thought he would never see his brother again. 

He closes his eyes and buries his head in his hands. It’s a defensive mechanism he’s used since he was a child. If he ignores the world, perhaps it will leave him alone for a little while.

***** 

Sam has no idea what Dean is talking about but he recognises the action. He knows Dean is going into denial. He doesn’t know what Dean went through but he’s beginning to put two and two together. Problem is, he’s getting five, or three. Anything but four.

He knows Dean’s not keen on water. He’s never been a strong swimmer. Capable but not Olympic material. But he can’t begin to imagine what would have got Dean into such a state. So the tap was dripping the bathroom? It’s obviously triggered something in his brother’s memory. 

Dean’s shut down for the moment so the best thing Sam can think of doing is remedying the water situation. If he can’t get the water to stop dripping, he’ll get them another room. The clerk might think he’s being a little precious but if it helps Dean, he’ll do it.

He stands up and gives Dean a pat on the shoulder. He’s not surprised at the total lack of reaction from his brother. Once in the bathroom he looks around for the culprit. The tap is dripping ever so slowly and Sam turns it, closing it fully. The water ceases immediately and Sam wishes he’d known about this beforehand, vowing to make sure every tap is always closed off in future. 

By the time he returns to the bedroom Dean has his head up again and, from the way he’s staring at the bathroom door, it looks like he’s waiting for Sam. Sam offers a reassuring smile.

“Water’s stopped,” he says. 

***** 

There’s no way Dean is going to admit it, but he’s inexplicably relieved to see Sam back. It’s not as though he’d gone far, and it’s not as though Dean’s never been on his own in a room before, but the anxiety he felt when he took his head out of his hands to find Sam gone took him by surprise. He’s sure Sam would have a logical, level headed explanation but he’s not going to share. It would involve exploring his feelings and that’s not an exercise he’s in a rush to partake in.

Thankfully Sam doesn’t seem to notice anything amiss. Well, any more amiss than before as he takes his seat opposite again. Dean wonders if he’s going to say anything and then snorts with badly concealed laughter. This is Sam. Of course he’s going to say something.

Sam just furrows his brow though and studies Dean until he feels like a bug under the microscope. His little outburst seems to have Sam more worried than anything. He wonders how long he can stand this scrutiny and just as he’s about to say something Sam leans forward and puts his hand on Dean’s forehead.

Dean flaps an arm in front of him in a vain attempt to ward off the impending temperature check.

“I’m fine, Sammy,” he says and for a moment he believes it. Sam has an aura of calm about him and Dean is soaking up the familiarity of his brother’s presence. For now, Dean can kid himself that he’s alright, that he will carry on being alright and that in a day or two they’ll move on to the next hunt.

Sam just huffs in disbelief and shakes his head slowly.

“No, you’re not,” he states, “but you will be. I promise.”

*****


	13. Chapter 13

Day Ten Part ii

The TV in the corner of Bobby’s room is displaying a colourful array of images and sounds but there’s something niggling him. He stops cleaning his faithful handgun and gives the screen his full attention. His stomach flips and he doesn’t want to believe what he’s seeing. He really thinks they need more time here for Dean to recover, but the item playing on the local news has removed that option for them.

The blonde reporter is standing outside a house Bobby’s never seen before. But it’s not the house that’s caught his attention, it’s the description of what happened there that penetrates his thoughts. 

Four dead. Brutally murdered in cold blood. One impaled with an iron stake so forcefully he’s been pinned to the solid oak floor. 

Bobby doesn’t need to hear any more to know the local authorities have just found Jefferson Watts. He doesn’t want to know if they found anything else. He imagines there’s enough evidence of Dean’s incarceration left at the scene for the feds to identify the boy. He suspects Sam will be easily identified too and the last thing they need right now is to be bothered by over zealous law enforcement officers.

The news moves on, endlessly changing, and Bobby throws his gun down. He casts a glance round the room. He doesn’t have much here, he always travels light, and he doesn’t think it will take long to erase any evidence of his presence here. He hopes Sam had the foresight to check in under an alias or better yet, paid cash. It would be surprising if he hadn’t but Bobby can’t help but worry. 

He catches the odd snippet of commentary from the TV and after a few minutes the anchorman returns to the main story of the night and Bobby’s heart sinks as he sees a photofit image of the prime suspect on the screen. It’s a bad picture but it’s clearly Sam.

And that’s when Bobby starts packing. 

*****

Sam finally gets Dean settled in front of the TV and finds an innocuous documentary for him to watch, something about classic car makeovers he thinks, and turns to his laptop. He wants to read up on the symptoms of depression, wants to be able to ward it off at the outset if he can. Assuming he’s reading the signs right, of course. And he thinks he needs to be prepared for more flashbacks, if he could only get Dean to share.

He’s just got the pages up on screen when there’s a pounding on the door that startles him. He’s at the door, hand on gun, before he’s even registered the look on his brother’s face. Dean looks like a rabbit caught in the headlights. Sam checks through the peephole, relaxes when he sees Bobby and waves a reassuring hand in Dean’s direction.

Bobby doesn’t say a word but the look on his face is enough to strike fear into Sam’s heart. Something is wrong, very wrong, but Sam doesn’t know what. He’s been running on adrenaline for the last few days, fixating on Dean and his needs. So when Bobby flicks the TV onto the news station he’s shocked to see his own face staring back at him.

***** 

Dean watches the interaction between his brother and their friend. He can’t make out what they’re saying, although they don’t seem to be saying very much. He recognises that things aren’t quite right though when the TV spews forth a picture of Sam and he catches a sudden moment of clarity. His brother is in trouble.

Sam and Bobby are moving swiftly around the room, around Dean, picking things up, throwing things in bags, wiping down surfaces and Dean realises they’re packing up, readying themselves, and him, to leave. The clarity he held on to for a moment has gone and he’s suddenly scared.

He’s gotten used to being in this room with Sam. He’s not ready to change location and whilst he acknowledges this isn’t the best room he’s ever been in, it’s given him a foundation, a base to steady himself for a little while. 

He watches Sam with stricken eyes. He doesn’t know how to tell his brother he can’t move from this place. Bobby and Sam seem so determined and he knows, really knows, they can’t stay. Sam’s picture is on the television and even in his current state of mind, Dean knows that means his brother is in trouble. And the thing Dean can’t even begin to contemplate is Sam not being with him.

He doesn’t realise his breathing has speeded up, or that he’s flipping the tv remote over and over and round his fingers until Sam gently takes it out of his hand and rests a hand on his shoulder.

“It’s okay, Dean,” he tells him. “We have to leave though. Okay?”

And, no, Dean’s not okay with that, not really. But Sam needs to leave so he’ll go, somehow.

***** 

Sam has their belongings packed in the Impala and the room cleaned as best he can in record time. He nods at Bobby’s unspoken query whether he’s good to go. He wants Bobby to get going first. They’ve got a long drive ahead of them and Sam’s not sure how Dean is going to handle it. 

He thinks Dean has come on in leaps and bounds but up till now he’s not stepped foot outside the room. Now Sam is going to ask him to not only move outside, but into the car and on a long journey. Sam knows Dean loves the car, considers it home, but the confines of the interior are an unknown for Sam. He doesn’t know what might set off another panic attack and they’re going to be driving through the night. In the dark. 

Bobby has left already, he’s going to get a head start on the boys, which gives Sam the space to deal with Dean and any issues on their own. Sam doesn’t know if Bobby did that deliberately or not but he makes a mental note to thank him later.

He turns to Dean and offers a smile and holds a hand out to him. He’s not surprised when Dean just snorts and pushes himself up on his feet. Sam leaves his hand where it is, just in case Dean changes his mind, or just in case Dean falters.

But Dean surprises Sam and stays on his own two feet, not wavering or swaying, but when he gets to the door he stops dead at the threshold. Sam almost crashes into him, pulling himself up just short of Dean’s back. He rests a hand in the small of his brother’s back, feeling the heat bleeding through his shirt. He wonders where Dean’s jacket is, it’s going to be cold in the car and Dean’s not quite through with the antibiotics yet.

Dean has become as rigid as a statue though, and Sam decides he has more pressing issues right now.

“Dean?” he whispers, not wanting to startle his brother unnecessarily. “You okay?”

He feels Dean trembling slightly beneath his touch, feels his rate of breathing increase and he wonders if they’re on the verge of another panic attack. He doesn’t know how to ward it off, he didn’t have time to read up on it before Bobby’s arrival. He thinks he ought to get Dean’s breathing down before he hyperventilates himself into oblivion but to do that he wants to get him out into the fresh air. Except that seems to be the problem. But he really, really doesn’t want to go back into the room. Not now they’ve got this far.

He hates himself for what he’s about to do but needs must and he knows Dean would never abandon his little brother.

“Dean,” he murmurs, “we have to go. I have to go. I’m sorry.”

*****

Dean’s heart skips a beat with Sam’s words. Sam has to go? Has to go where? Is that why they’re at the door? And why the hell can’t he get any further? 

All he knows is he can’t be without Sam. He couldn’t make it to the bathroom alone so there’s no way he’s staying here on his own. Wherever Sam goes, he goes.

And that’s how he finds the strength to carry himself to the car, Sam’s hand at his back the whole time, a strong, comforting presence, not rushing him but not letting him fall back either. In the back of his mind Dean wonders how Sam knows exactly what he needs and when.

He relaxes when he sees his car, his baby, gleaming in the parking lot. Sam opens the passenger door and Dean falls in, sinking into the familiar leather, allowing the Impala to cocoon him in the scents and memories of happier times. Maybe it’s wrong, but this is where Dean truly feels at home and when Sam turns the motor over, Dean sighs and lets his head drop on the back of the seat. He doesn’t know where they’re headed, but Sam is in control and he’s in his baby. For the moment, all is right with the world.

*****

Sam drives through the darkness, half watching the road, half watching his brother. Dean spent the first two hours gazing out of the window, although Sam’s not sure he saw much of the passing scenery, and the last two hours sleeping, head resting on the cold glass of the window. 

Sam isn’t worried that Dean hasn’t spoken. He’s not bothered his brother doesn’t appear to care where they’re going. He takes it as a compliment that Dean apparently trusts him implicitly with his welfare. He smiles softly, sadly, to himself. It’s been a long time since Dean let Sam take the lead on anything. Sam still feels like a little kid when Dean’s around, taking charge, issuing orders, protecting him. He’s happy to return the favour, although he wishes the circumstances were different.

The miles roll by and Sam starts to recognise the roads and buildings they’re driving past. He hasn’t seen Bobby’s vehicle so he assumes the older man has already arrived and is putting things in order for them. He doesn’t know how they’re ever going to repay their friend, knows Bobby isn’t expecting them to, but this, what he’s doing for them now, goes beyond the call of friendship. 

As Bobby’s salvage yard appears through the dark of night, Sam breathes deeply and decides that this, this ramshackle house and yard with all it’s comforts and faults, this is truly home.

*****


	14. Chapter 14

Day Eleven

Sam’s done things he’s not proud of. He’s done things he’s not happy about. He’s done things he’s regretted instantly. And he’s done things he knew would get him in trouble one day. Looks like that day’s finally caught up with him.

He sits at Bobby’s kitchen table supping down the cold beer the older man had waiting for him, savouring the luxury of stretching his legs out full after a night time of driving. Bobby’s leaning against a kitchen cabinet, eyeing him closely and Sam knows any minute now he’s going to ask him what really went down at that house. Hell, it made the news and forced them to up sticks to leave town before any of them were really ready for it. The man deserves an explanation.

But Sam doesn’t know where to start. He casts a glance towards the door leading to the stairs, to where he lay his brother down to sleep after the trip, promising he’d be right downstairs if he needed him.

Staring at the door can only delay the inevitable though. Sam knows that. And he knows when Bobby shifts from foot to foot that his time is running out.

He runs a hand over his face, brushing away the cobwebs of fatigue, and looks at Bobby with tired eyes. Now he’s set his mind to it, he wants to get this over with. It’s been a crushing weight on his shoulders and he’s wanted to share the burden with someone for days. But he’s not used to sharing with anyone other than his brother. Who is having enough trouble dealing with his own problems.

He realises it’s silly. Bobby’s seen him at pretty much every stage of his life, and in every state imaginable. He’s the one person outside of his family he would trust with his life. Bobby’s picked up the pieces of more than one Winchester over the years. He’s fought half their battles with them and the rest, well, he’s been there in the background, at the end of a phone.

He takes a last swig from his beer and sets it on the table, a little too heavily, a little too noisily and tries to clear his head enough to talk to Bobby.

***** 

Bobby sees the signs, knows any minute now Sam is going to unburden himself and lay himself open. He knows the trust that takes and he’s heartened by it. It makes him feel good to know the Winchester boys are comfortable and secure in his home. 

But he can see that Sam is struggling with something. He can almost see the cogs whirring in the younger hunter’s head. He grabs another two beers out of the fridge and puts one in front of Sam and pops the other open himself pulling out the chair opposite and settling himself down. 

He waits for Sam to open his beer, waits for him to take a long draught of the cold liquid, waits for him to raise his head and look Bobby in the eye. It takes longer than he’d anticipated but he’s prepared to wait this one out. His only concern is that Sam manages to get through this before Dean wakes. Because once Dean is awake he knows Sam is going to clam up and they’ll have lost this opportunity.

When Sam finally meets Bobby’s eyes, the older man feels a chill run through him and suddenly he’s not so sure he wants to know what Sam has to tell him. He’s always known Sam is just as capable of violence as his brother but to see it reflected in his face is a real eye opener for him. He knows he has to put the image of little Sammy away, the young boy who arrived on his doorstep clutching his brother’s hand and a worn teddy bear all those years ago. 

The Sam Winchester sitting in front of him, nursing a cold bottle, is a hardened hunter, a man whose devotion to his brother is next to none and who would willing give his own life if it meant saving Dean. He’s grown in stature and strength and confidence. Bobby suddenly wonders if he knows him at all any more.

Sam takes a deep breath and Bobby settles in for the duration.

*****

Sam knows Bobby is listening and he knows what he’s going to tell him will be received in silence, in confidence and there will be no judgement at the end of it. It should help him but it doesn’t. Because deep down Sam still hasn’t really come to terms with what he did himself. He hasn’t given himself the time to think about it. He can kid himself all he wants that it’s because he’s been too busy caring for Dean, but the truth of the matter is he doesn’t want to think about it.

He wonders how to tell Bobby how he rummaged through the Impala, taking every gun and knife he could carry, how he had iron bullets, silver bullets, regular bullets, steel blades, wooden stakes, iron stakes, holy water, rounds of salt, everything. Because other than Jefferson Watts, he didn’t know who he was going to come across. And all he knew about Watts was Dean had killed him nine years ago. He didn’t know if he was about to come up against a ghost, or a warlock, or a zombie or a werewolf or what.

He wants Bobby to understand how shocked he was to be confronted by three humans. Humans, Bobby. Not monsters in the literal sense of the word, but monsters nonetheless. Men who had taken his brother, held him captive for six days and tortured the hell out of him. He wants Bobby to understand that at the time, he didn’t even know if Dean was still alive.

Sam twirls the bottle around his fingers as he recounts the moment he kicked the door down. He remembers how surprised he was to feel the wood give so easily beneath his booted foot and how he cringed at the noise it made. How he knew then his element of surprise had gone. 

He looks up at Bobby, who nods his head understandingly. Sam’s reassured. Of course Bobby would understand. He doesn’t know too much about the man’s history before they met but he wouldn’t be surprised if Bobby’s been there himself. He takes another pull at the bottle and hopes Dean, at least, is settled right now. 

*****

Bobby realises his fists are clenched beneath the table as he listens to Sam. He wishes he’d gone with the younger hunter as he slowly relaxes his fingers. He hears every inflection and hesitation in Sam’s speech and it’s as much as he can do not to jump out of his chair and give the boy a hug. 

He listens as Sam falters as he describes the kitchen, as he relates how he came across three men standing around the farmhouse table, drinking whisky and coffee. Three men and Jefferson Watts. Bobby doesn’t flinch as Sam tells him how he drew his knife and gun simultaneously. He lets the younger man detail how the sound of laughter inflamed him to the point he didn’t even register they were human until it was too late and how, if he was honest with himself, it didn’t actually matter any more.

Bobby can picture the scene. He can see Sam slash his knife through the air, slicing through a neck, turning away and firing his gun in one smooth, almost graceful move. He can hear the screams Sam drew from the men dying by his hand. He tries not to think about the fear fuelled adrenaline coursing through Sam at that point.

Bobby has seen Sam’s combat skills and he knows the third man wouldn’t have stood a chance. When Sam describes how he broke the man’s neck, Bobby just nods and reaches out to take the empty beer bottle from his hands. He silently replaces it with a third beer, hoping he’s doing the right thing. This is new territory for both of them but it feels right and that’s all they’ve got to go on here. 

But now Sam seems to have stalled and Bobby thinks he knows why. Nothing’s been said about Jefferson Watts and he’s the only one Bobby already knows something about. The news reporter had said one victim had been pinned to the floor with an iron stake. He’s willing to bet that man was Watts and Sam’s choice of weapon leaves only one choice of opponent. 

Jefferson Watts was one of the undead, a zombie.

*****

Sam takes his beer gratefully. He’s tired and ever so slightly light headed and he’s been driving nearly all night. He can see the sun trying to show it’s head over the salvage yard and he wonders how long Dean will sleep. He doesn’t want him waking alone, he’ll be disorientated and scared and who knows what that could do to him. Sam promised he’d be there when he woke and he’s not going to break that promise.

He knows he’s delaying, stalling for time to get his thoughts back in order. After telling Bobby how he killed Watts’ three cohorts he feels emotionally drained. At the time, he reiterates, they weren’t men to him. They were worse than the creatures they’re used to fighting. And he believes if he keeps telling himself that, he’ll get through this okay.

But Bobby can only be put off for so long and Jefferson Watts had to be dealt with once and for all. Bobby understands that, doesn’t he?

Sam has to make him understand that when he looked up from the carnage on the floor, when he finally came face to face with his brother’s tormentor, he felt nothing. He thought he would feel hatred, rage, disgust, even pity maybe. But no, he felt nothing. A complete void of emotion.

Sam explains how Watts cowered behind a dresser, trying to escape Sam’s wrath. It made Sam laugh inside to see such a monster afraid of him. Talk about turning tables. But then Sam wasn’t laughing on the outside. On the outside he was the professional hunter his father always wanted him to be, ingrained in him even when he fought against it body and soul. Turns out he’s more of a natural hunter than even he realised.

He recalls the fight Jefferson Watts put up. The last ditch attempt of a condemned man, although Sam has to hold back a snort of derision. Watts wasn’t a man. Sam doesn’t think he ever really was, not even when he was human.

Watts wasn’t a skilled fighter, Sam tells Bobby. But he was desperate and he knew it was all over. He didn’t try to beg for survival, Sam wouldn’t have given it anyway, but he threw his fists around, kicked out with no co-ordination. Sam felt a foot glance off his shin but all it managed to do was drive him on even more.

He wonders if Bobby understands how he could sucker punch Watts, drive him to the floor with no mercy, no emotion at all. He wonders if Bobby thinks less of him as he recounts how he hefted the iron stake above his head, above the fallen man’s chest, and let it drop. Bobby needs to understand the force behind the stake wasn’t just Sam looking to save his brother. It was fuelled by the fear he was too late, the desire to find Dean, bring him home.

*****

Bobby understands. He understands all too well. He understands that Sam didn’t set out to commit murder, probably still doesn’t see it that way. And if he’s honest with himself, Bobby doesn’t see it like that either. Sam was doing what he had to and he’ll have to come to terms with that one day. Because Bobby thinks it’ll hit home one day, probably when he’s least expecting it. He’ll realise he’s killed three men when he’s more than capable of taking them out without resorting to lethal methods. 

The end justified the means. Sam doesn’t have to defend himself to anyone. Bobby would have done the same thing.

Looking across at Sam, Bobby realises how exhausted the younger man is. He hadn’t realised how the time had flown by. Sam needs to sleep if he’s going to be any good to his brother and Bobby hopes he’ll be able to rest now he’s been able to unburden himself. 

With a gentle hand on the younger hunter’s shoulder, he ushers him out of the kitchen and points him in the direction of the stairs. Sam takes the hint and smiles sombrely at Bobby. As he mounts the stairs, he turns back and Bobby wonders what he’s missed. But Sam just looks him straight in the eye.

“Thank you, Bobby,” he says. “For everything.”

*****


	15. Chapter 15

Day Twelve

By the time Dean wakes it’s midday. He opens his eyes slowly, gripping the edge of the bed when he doesn’t recognise the wallpaper immediately. He twists the sheet in his fingers, turning his head slowly to the side. It’s just as he feared. He’s alone in an unfamiliar place.

He could have sworn Sam said he would be here when he woke but Dean can’t see him anywhere. He doesn’t realise his breathing has become erratic as he vainly reaches under the pillow for his knife. His searching fingers find nothing and Dean knows, he just knows, that things are wrong. Sammy said he’d be here and he’s not. He always has his knife but it’s not there and he doesn’t remember going to sleep here.

He tumbles gracelessly out of bed, mind spinning, chest heaving, sweat beginning to bead on his forehead. He’s not helpless and he’s going to get the hell out of here. He doesn’t stop to register he’s only wearing a t shirt and boxers. He’s still got his hands and feet to fight his way out with.

The door isn’t far away but to Dean it may as well be miles. When he hears footsteps outside, he freezes. The door handle turns slowly and Dean panics, looking for somewhere to hide, scrambling back towards the window. If all else fails, he thinks, he can jump out. It can’t be that far down.

*****

Sam is kicking himself right now. He slept far longer than he intended to, which means he’s probably broken his promise to Dean. He keeps his fingers crossed that his brother is still asleep as he opens the door quietly.

But life is never that easy, he reflects as he steps through the door just in time to see Dean trying to get the window open. Sam’s a Winchester. He knows what Dean is trying to do. He’d do the same thing if he felt trapped. Dean obviously hasn’t worked out where he is yet and Sam needs to stop him before he throws himself from the second floor window, doing himself more damage than he needs.

“Dean,” he calls, softly and watches as Dean freezes. He wonders if his brother recognises his voice. Dean hasn’t turned but he’s stopped trying to force the window so Sam decides to press home his advantage. 

He steps closer, close enough to touch but not in Dean’s personal space. Not yet. He wants Dean to make the first move, to acknowledge Sam, acknowledge he’s safe. Sam relaxes a little. He knows he can stop Dean hurting himself now he’s closed the distance between them but he hopes it won’t come to that.

He feels more than sees Dean calm down slightly, tense shoulders dropping a little, head falling forward to rest on the window pane. Sam knows this is the moment to break through the solitude Dean has built up around himself and lays his hand lightly on the small of his brother’s back. 

He can feel Dean trembling, probably through exertion he thinks, as he gently steers him away from the window and back towards the bed. As he guides Dean to a sitting position he takes a good look at his brother’s face. His eyes are frighteningly vacant and his skin is pale. 

Sam perches next to him and waits, silently, for Dean to come back to him. It takes a few minutes but after what feels like an eternity, Dean’s eyes clear and he turns his head to Sam.

“Sam?” he whispers, and Sam just nods, making eye contact, reassuring Dean without words that he’s safe. Dean nods back and Sam can just hear him counting softly, trying to get his breathing back under control.

***** 

Zeppelin, Dean thinks, as a generic rock riff fills his head. Surprising how something so loud can be so soothing at times. He can feel Sam’s hand at his back, small circular motions helping him keep the nightmares at bay for a while. 

He feels stupid and he doesn’t know why. He can see now where they are. He can’t really understand why he didn’t know immediately he was at Bobby’s. He’s spent enough time in this house, hell, in this very room. It was always ‘his’ room when he was a child. It was his only private space growing up. He should have recognised it instantly. He briefly wonders if Bobby will be offended when he learns of Dean’s reaction.

He takes a deep breath and pulls back into himself, although it takes far more effort than he’s comfortable with. He’s not one for outward shows of emotion and this is yet another chink in his armour now. He can’t afford chinks, not in their line of business. He can’t let Sammy know he has weaknesses. Not now, not ever. Sam will never trust him again if he knows how scared he is sometimes.

He forces a smile, game face firmly back in place and shrugs Sam’s hand off. He has an uncomfortable feeling that Sam can see through the show, but if he does he’s letting Dean get away with it this time.

Dean accepts the towel his brother passes him and pushes himself up to his feet. Yes, he could do with a shower but, truth be told, he just needs some space to regroup in private. He offers Sam a grateful smile and a quiet ‘thanks’ on his way past.

When he gets back Sam has gone. He’s laid out clean clothes on the bed for Dean and Dean smiles to see his brother’s choice. Jeans are a given, ripped and worn as they are. Plain black tee shirt which he thinks is new, and a soft brown hoodie, also new. He wonders where Sam got the money from, reflecting maybe he didn’t. Maybe they’re stolen. Maybe Sammy’s a little more street savvy than he gives him credit for. Or maybe Bobby has a secret stash of clothes for occasions like this. Either way he’s grateful for them as he slowly slips them over his head.

***** 

Bobby has made sandwiches. He made them as soon as he heard movement above. This house is old and he knows every creak and groan it makes. He’s spent most his adult life here after all. He knows the third step from the top makes a distinctive screech when you lift your foot off it so he knows someone is on the way down. And he knows that if one Winchester is on the way, the other won’t be far behind.

Sam is a sight for sore eyes, he thinks as the youngest brother shuffles in to the kitchen. He looks slightly better rested than the night before but Bobby would bet his bottom dollar he still feels like crap. He knows he’s been in with Dean, he heard the footsteps and voices. 

He doesn’t press, just raises a quizzical eyebrow as he passes Sam a mug of coffee. He’s been around long enough to know when to push and when to sit back and wait. He can hear the shower running so he knows there’s a little time before Dean joins them. 

Sam takes the mug and sighs, long and deep, and Bobby thinks there’s more behind it than general fatigue. He doesn’t have to wait long. Sam shakes his head and focuses on the hot liquid before him.

“He didn’t know where he was,” he says. Statement of fact, but Bobby can hear the underlying self recrimination in Sam’s voice. He can tell the Sam it’s not his fault till he’s blue in the face but he doesn’t think it’ll make a difference. What those boys need, really need, is to talk to each other, Bobby thinks, and he’ll bend over backwards to make it happen if he has to.

*****

When Dean finally makes his way down stairs Bobby and Sam are just sitting at the table in silence. He could have sworn he’d heard voices a second ago and he wonders what they were talking about. It doesn’t help his self esteem to know they’ve been discussing him and his little episode earlier. Can’t they see he’s struggling enough with this and them dissecting his every move is unbearable?

It’s even more obvious when Bobby pushes to his feet and, muttering something about ‘work to be done’, makes his excuses, leaving the Winchesters alone.

Sam pushes a steaming mug of coffee at Dean and he accepts it, watching his brother with wary eyes. He knows Sam has been patient with him and he knows that patience is going to wear thin soon. Especially as he can see his own fatigue reflected in his eyes. 

As he wraps his hands round the mug he looks up at Sam and offers him a sombre smile. It’s all he can manage at the moment but, god knows his brother deserves more. 

“I’m sorry, Sam,” he manages and his voice is so quiet he’s not surprised when Sam doesn’t acknowledge the words. He probably didn’t hear, Dean thinks.

***** 

Sam has never let anything slip by him where his brother is concerned. The soft apology from Dean takes him by surprise but he doesn’t say anything. He knows how much it takes for Dean to admit a weakness, a failing, even if he’s the only one to see it. So he just nods his head, watching Dean carefully, wanting to see if he’s about to fall apart or whether he’s starting to break through his almost catatonic state.

When Dean looks up at him again, Sam is ridiculously relieved to see he’s dry eyed and relatively composed. Yes, he’s a little pale still but going six days without food and light will do that to a man. Sam’s made sure he’s building up his appetite again. It’s been slow going but they’re heading in the right direction and the fact Dean can manage a shower by himself now is testament to his ever growing strength.

Sam wonders if this is the right time to try to start a conversation or whether he will just make the things worse. He doesn’t want Dean to shut down again but he’s encouraged by the few words Dean has managed so far today. And he thinks, deep down, Dean wants to talk but doesn’t know how to take the first step.

It takes another few minutes before Sam has gathered the nerve to break the mostly comfortable silence in the kitchen. When he does, he thinks for a minute he’s blown it before he’s started. Dean’s head shoots up and the look on his face breaks Sam’s heart. Sam can’t bear being the one to put that hollow, terrified look in his brother’s eyes but then Dean’s face crumbles and he puts his head in his hands.

Sam scoots his chair round the table so he’s next to Dean and puts his hand out to comfort him. But something stops him midway and his hand hovers aimlessly. Dean lifts his head and seems to take pity on that hand by reaching out with his own and bringing them both down to the table. And then, he does what Sam had hoped he would do, but never expected.

He starts to talk.

***** 

Dean’s aware he’s rushing, stumbling over words he’s been able to pronounce since he was three years old. He’s aware his heart is beating so hard against his chest Sam can probably hear it. He’s aware he’s clutching his coffee so tightly his knuckles are turning white. And he’s aware he has Sam’s full attention.

And somewhere, in the back of his mind, he’s aware that this is what he needs. He can feel a weight lifting off his shoulders. One he didn’t know he was carrying. As he tells Sam about the hell he lived through during those six days he feels the constant tightness across his chest dissipating.

He’s careful not to meet Sam’s eye though. He doesn’t think he’s ready to face the sympathy and pity he’s pretty sure he’ll see there. Or the horror. Because it was horrific and as he recounts the details as succinctly as he can, he has a moment of clarity. A sharp, clear stab of reality. 

Now, talking about it, laying it out, examining it objectively he suddenly understands something. He got through it. In one piece. There will always be part of it in his psyche and he’ll have nightmares for a long, long time. The whole ordeal will meld into his personality because he’s realistic enough to know that he’ll always be affected by it. But that’s not what he’s suddenly realised.

No, what he knows now, knows beyond all doubt, is that if there’s anything to be learnt from this, it’s that he’s a survivor.


	16. Chapter 16

Epilogue

They’ve been here for just over two weeks now. Dean hasn’t said anything yet but Sam can tell he’s getting itchy feet. He keeps looking through the papers and Sam has to admit he looks so much better nowadays.

The last flashback was three days ago. Sam doesn’t kid himself. He knows his brother will continue to suffer for a long time. But the severity of the episodes has lessened and Sam’s learning to recognise the signs.

He knows when Dean’s shoulders stiffen, when the colour drains from his face and his breathing hitches Dean is on the cusp of another panic attack. Sam’s learnt how to relax his brother, how to calm him down. It amazes him how simple it is. A few soft, reassuring words, repeated over and over in his ear, coupled with a firm hand on his arm and eye contact. Sam reckons most of the time he can get his brother back before the situation spirals out of control.

He’s worked out most of the triggers. Some were easy. Like dripping water and the white noise from the television at shut down. Others were less obvious. Sam still has to be careful not to leave Dean alone for too long. He’s okay for an hour or two but beyond that? Not so good.

Take Monday for instance. Sam had been so sure he’d be back within the hour. He felt guilty enough for going out but he’d been going stir crazy at the house. So he told Dean he was just going out for supplies.

But there’d been an accident on the way back and Sam got held up for over three hours while he waited for the road to be reopened. By the time he got back, Dean had retreated into himself, ignoring Bobby’ pleas and cajoling.

It took Sam the best part of the afternoon to break Dean out of that one. It was a hard lesson for all of them and Sam still hasn’t forgiven himself for it.

It doesn’t bode well for a quick return to the hunt, he thinks, but maybe a simple salt and burn might do them both some good. They’ve imposed on Bobby’s hospitality long enough and it’s time to move on.

***** 

Dean wonders how to bring up the subject of leaving without setting Sam off on some over protective rant. The last two weeks have been restorative but he doesn’t think he’ll ever get back to being himself while they stay here. He needs to be out there being Dean Winchester - hunter. Staying here isn’t going to help him rediscover his instincts.

Sam means well, he supposes, and he still needs him around a lot more than he’ll ever admit, but there comes a point when a man has to say ‘enough is enough’ and suck it up. He’s made a start and he’s sure Sam’s noticed him spending more and more time out in the yard with the cars. Bobby’s been with him the whole time, maybe not in his back pocket but hovering with a cup of coffee or within earshot to pass a spanner or wrench. He’s subtle about it, Dean admits, but over the last two days or so he’s realised it’s slightly irritating.

Dean can’t really explain it but he feels safe out in the yard. Surrounded by crumpled steel and iron, husks of cars and trucks, he feels, if not invincible, at least in command. He’s feeling more in control of things every day. Every so often he’s taken over by rage, angry at Watts, angry at Sam, angry at himself. The yard gives him a safe haven to vent. Sam and Bobby don’t question it when he lets loose on the shell of a pickup. They don’t question the dents or smashed windscreens. They don’t question the fresh scrapes and bruises on his knuckles. 

But he’s winning his battle against these rages. He’s sure Sam would have an explanation for them but he doesn’t really care. He just knows he feels better when he’s released the pent up fury and he knows he needs to do it in solitude. Because anger is a personal emotion and he doesn’t want to share it. He doesn’t want to worry Sam because that would just result in a clingy, mother hen reaction from his brother.

***** 

Sam knows why Dean’s been disappearing outside more and more often. He doesn’t say anything, he’s just thankful Dean has found an outlet for his mood swings. He knows Dean is going be running the gamut of emotions for some time and he’s astute enough to know his brother won’t appreciate any interference. Dean needs to work through some of this by himself. 

But Sam also knows his brother has gained enough strength to come to him if he needs to. That doesn’t mean Sam is just going to leave him be though. No, it means he’ll keep an eye on things from a respectable distance. He’ll let Bobby be the one on the ground for this. Bobby belongs out in the yard, he doesn’t. It would be far too obvious if he started tinkering with cars.

Sam is the one who’s there at night though. When the nightmares strike. And strike they do. He’s the one who gently wakes Dean with a hand on his shoulder and quiet, reassuring words. He’s been on the receiving end of Dean’s fist once or twice as a result. Ironically he was delighted the first time it happened. Means Dean’s reactions are kicking in. And he ignores Dean’s heartfelt apologies in the morning. Tells his brother not to worry – to look at it as yet another breakthrough.

Yes, on balance, Sam thinks Dean is ready to move forward now. All they have to do is find an easy hunt to ease him back into the saddle.

***** 

Bobby knows the boys will be leaving soon. He reckons it’s only a matter of days now. He’s seen the signs from both of them and it warms his heart. He worries about Dean but he takes solace in knowing Sam is there and totally capable of looking out for his brother. It’s a strange reversal of roles for them, he thinks, but Sam had a good teacher for this new role of his. And it won’t be forever. Dean’s stronger every day and soon he’ll be snarking and causing trouble and breaking hearts all over America again. Bobby never thought he’d be looking forward to the day he receives a call to bail the Winchesters out of another jam but then life has a habit of throwing curved balls when they’re least expected.

He’s been watching them both and he has to admit that while Dean is on the up, he does worry about Sam. It’s been hard on the boy. He spent six days worried out of his mind, stubbornly refusing to accept the possibility his brother was dead. Six days hardly eating or sleeping. Six days spent on a rollercoaster of emotions. 

And he’s spent the last three weeks so busy putting his brother back together that he’s forgotten about himself. Bobby’s tried to make sure he’s got a full stomach every night and he’s done everything he can to give Sam a peaceful night, but it’s hard when the boys have an almost psychic link to each other. He’s heard Sam shuffling around at 3 in the morning in answer to Dean’s night terrors. 

But he can’t fault Sam for that. It was all he could do not to rush to Dean’s aid in the early days. He never realised it would take such restraint to let the boys take care of their own. He was never blessed with children but if he had, this is how he would have liked them to turn out.

So Bobby’s done what he can for the boys and he acknowledges, sadly almost, that his job here is done. They’re as good as they’re going to get here and they need to move on. The nomadic lifestyle they were raised in is too strongly ingrained in them to allow them to stay in one place for long.

He’ll miss them like hell when they’re gone, but he knows they’ll never be strangers. He knows he’ll always be the first person they call when they’re in trouble or need help. They might even call just for the hell of it sometime. Maybe … or maybe not.

*****

There are no long, drawn out goodbyes. It goes against everything they’ve ever known. Goodbyes are permanent and they both know they’ll be seeing Bobby again soon. He’s family and they’ll never be able to repay him for what he’s done for them. Deep down, they both know he doesn’t expect anything but it doesn’t remove the feeling of a debt owed to the man.

Sam’s loaded their meagre belongings into the Impala, Dean is twirling the keys around his fingers and Bobby is watching them, pretending the house won’t feel empty and lonely when they’re gone.

There’s a hunt in Michigan. Sam reckons if they drive straight through they can be there by nightfall. Dean reckons they’ll be there earlier than that if Sam lets him drive most of the way. Bobby reckons they’ll be fighting by the time they get out of the yard.

All things considered, it’s been an interesting month. It’s a month none of them are sorry to put behind them, a month none of them will ever forget. They’ve all learned things about themselves and each other. 

Sam’s learned his brother isn’t the superhero he believed him to be when he was a child and he’s learned that he will kill for those he loves without a second thought. Dean’s learned it’s okay to be scared sometimes and that family will always come through for you, whether they’re blood or not. And Bobby? He’s learned the Winchester boys have a bond unlike any he’s ever seen and he’s learned what it’s like to be included in that bond, if just for a little while.

And they’ve all learned it’s time to move on. 

***** 

The End


End file.
